


The New Year

by LanJevinson



Series: The New Year [1]
Category: Shameless - Fandom
Genre: Canon Divergent, Future Fic, Post Season Six
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:36:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 75,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6685828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LanJevinson/pseuds/LanJevinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gallaghers adjust to Mickey's abrupt return into their lives.</p><p>A post season six story, canon divergent (see notes at beginning of work).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Translation into [Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5149015) available courtesy of [SleepingThroughReality](https://ficbook.net/authors/1590799)
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story picks up with Mickey being released from prison approximately eight years after going in.
> 
> This fic is somewhat season six compliant with a few giant canon exceptions:  
> 1\. Immigration never caught wind of Svetlana, so she never divorced Mickey. You can assume she still explored a relationship with the Balls, though  
> 2\. Mickey still has the infamous tattoo, but you can either assume he's had the misspelling fixed or he never spelled it wrong in the first place.  
> 3\. The overall shitting on Mickey's character that was present in season six didn't happen, or was minimal (particularly in the case of Mandy and Svetlana- the jury's still out with Ian)
> 
> So if you're still with me, enjoy!

Carl: early February 

* * *

 what _the fuck is a cubic equation?_

Carl shot off what would likely be the first of many texts to Lip as he sat at the kitchen table with his algebra textbook in front of him. He had half a page of scrawling, incomplete notes from the one time he'd managed to show up to class and not fall asleep almost instantly, and a copy of the syllabus, where Fiona’d highlighted the due dates of the homework in her attempt to “help”. Fiona didn't know actual shit about algebra.

He'd graduated high school by the skin of his teeth at the age of 19 and a half (he was pretty sure the principal just wanted him out of there). Carl felt a warm pool of pride every time he thought of the fact that of all his older siblings, he was the only other one beside Lip to manage the legit degree, and a simultaneous tickle of guilt when he thought of the various reasons that hadn't been possible for the rest of them. With his family's admittedly reluctant encouragement, Carl enrolled in community college to complete his educational requirements for the Chicago PD. ("Can't believe I'm going to have a fuckin'  _cop_ for a brother," Fiona liked to say whenever she did anything a little illegal).

Life shit got in the way of school, naturally. For one, Carl could only afford to take a few classes at a time because obviously he didn't get a scholarship like Lip had. He worked all the time and had no time to study (and he needed to, because college was fucking hard). Failed a few classes. Narrowly escaped ruining his chances completely when he almost got picked up for an illegal weapons charge. Took a semester off to work full time when Ian had to take a leave of absence from work for a while (Ian didn't know this and would never find out). But now, finally, he was set to complete his required 60 credit hours of college courses at the end of the summer. Up next would be the police academy, which he was pretty sure he’d rock at. Police officer by his 25th birthday didn't seem too shabby for a South Side kid with a learning disability, no parental guidance, and a sealed juvenile record.

Carl's phone buzzed twice in quick succession and he swiped open the conversation.

_study sesh this wkend. Send me pic of assignment_

Carl paged through the book and took a picture to send to Lip. The photo had just completed sending when there was a sharp rap on the back door.

“S’open,” Carl called.

He didn't know who he'd expected to be standing there, but it sure as hell wasn't _him_.

None other than Mickey Milkovich stood in the threshold of the Gallagher kitchen. He wore a too big coat and a tight beanie cap, breathing out the remnants of a cigarette. He flicked the butt over the railing and said, “No one ever taught you to check the fucking peephole first?”

"Holy shit,” was all Carl could reply.

“Can I come in?” Mickey inquired, eyebrows raised as if to challenge Carl to say no. He didn't wait for a response, just shut the door behind him and wrenched his cap off his head. His hair was shaved close to his head. He looked a little older and thinner in the face. Other than that he hadn't changed. His nervous energy still filled up the room as it always had.

“I'm the only one home,” Carl told him. It was just him and Fiona and Liam now. Debbie when she (rarely) visited. Ian and Lip sometimes crashed after a weekend family dinner. Frank was around every once in awhile when he was in a bad way. Fiona had grown more lenient as the kids grew older. Plus, it was clear to all of them that Frank's time was definitely, actually growing short. So Fiona was taking more pity on him these days. It had been a seriously cold winter and spring wasn't faring so great either.

“I know,” Mickey replied. He drummed his fingers against the back of a chair.

“You casing the place or something?” Carl asked mildly. Mickey grimaced.

“Wanted to be sure it was just you,” he admitted after a beat. Carl nodded, understanding. Fiona was a little more intense than Carl.

“Ain't you gonna ask me how long I've been out?” Mickey wondered.

“Obviously not long,” Carl surmised evenly. “You look like you're waiting for someone to jump out from behind you with a shiv.” Mickey snorted, conceding with a half shrug.

“Want a beer?” 

“Nah, man. I just-” Mickey started and stopped, rubbing his bottom lip aggressively. It was so painfully obvious what he'd come to say.

“He's doing good,” Carl said, taking pity on the older man. “Been pretty stable since the last time. The longest stretch so far.”

The last time Ian had had an episode wasn't nearly as dramatic as the first. Carl was fuzzy on the details (he'd been enjoying the end of senior year at the time) but he knew that Ian had opted to commit himself for 60 days after a few weeks of increasingly erratic behavior.

The real drama had occurred after Ian had been back for a week, when he and Fiona had a screaming match in the kitchen when she revealed to him that she'd gone to Mickey about it, and then Ian had given Fiona the cold shoulder for nearly a month after that.

Relief seemed to seep through Mickey. His shoulders dropped away from his ears a bit.

“Good,” he breathed, nodding. “Last I heard from your sister he was being committed for 60 days. Then nothing for four fucking years.”

“You coulda called,” Carl suggested, frowning. Mickey shot him an incredulous look. Mickey wouldn't have shredded his pride by calling to check up on his ex like a little bitch while in the joint. (And yet, here he was now, checking up on his ex. Huh.)

“Coulda asked Svetlana,” tried Carl again. Mickey snorted.

“Svet wouldn't have told me shit about him if he were dead.”

“Four years is kinda a long time to wonder though,” Carl insisted. He felt sorry for Mickey, sitting in a cell wondering if the only dude he'd ever loved was doing alright. Mickey must have read the expression on his face, because he scowled.

“It wasn't like that, man. He just- he meant somethin’ to me once and I don't want bad shit happening to him.”

“Yeah. I get that.” And he did. It had been over ten years since Carl had seen Bonnie, and he still thought of her sometimes and hoped she was doing okay. “He's an EMT now, did you know?” Judging from Mickey's surprised expression, he didn't.

“Fuck. That's- wow.” Mickey huffed out a laugh and blinked a few times, then sniffed once.

“Yeah,” Carl agreed, and the two men smiled genuinely at each other. But concern seeped into Mickey's face again.

“A job like that- you think he's… You know?” He made a vague gesture to his own head. Carl understood where Mickey was going with that. It was a high pressure, heavy job. Took a lot of mental strength.

“It's good for him, you know. Says it grounds him or whatever. Gives him a purpose.”

Mickey chuckled a little to himself.

“Sounds like him.”

“He has a boyfriend too,” Carl said, going ahead and getting it out of the way. Mickey looked unsurprised, but a little curious. Mickey would never ask, but Carl knew he wanted to, so he continued. “He's an office manager or some shit. He has a car. Grew up in the fucking suburbs. He reminds me of one of those guys from college movies… a frat brother.” It was true. Phil was always up for a good time, said ‘bro’ a lot, and even had a bit of a beer gut. He also only ever talked about sports and was boring as fuck, but whatever. He and Ian had been living together almost a year now.

Carl watched Mickey carefully, but saw no signs of yearning or jealousy on the other man’s face.

“I'm not looking to start shit,” Mickey insisted a little defensively when he caught Carl checking him for a negative reaction.

“I believe you,” replied Carl honestly. Mickey definitely didn't seem like a jealous ex.

“So,” Mickey said awkwardly, having got what he came for and now clearly unsure of how to proceed. “What's going on with you? What are you, like 6’5” now?” It was an over exaggeration, but not by a lot. Carl left Lip in the dust and had stood shoulder to shoulder with Ian ever since his final growth spurt (taller even, but Ian put up a fight any time Carl wanted to make a back to back comparison). Carl had always been scrawny, but he'd filled out a little thanks to training for the physical portion of the police force exam.

“You like what you see?” Carl taunted playfully. Mickey scoffed but said nothing. So that was a yes then. Carl grinned. “I'm gonna be a cop,” he told Mickey proudly. Mickey's eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“Really. Well, nice knowing ya,” he deadpanned, heading for the door he came in.

“Hold up!” Carl dug in his backpack to find a baggie he'd stashed in the bottom. “Welcome home present. It's good shit.” He pulled a fat joint out of the baggie  and held it out to Mickey. Mickey stared at him.

“You just told me you're gonna be a cop and you're offering me drugs?”

“I'm not a cop _yet_.”

Mickey cocked a brow, but took a step toward him and grabbed it.

"Weren't you headed to fuckin' juvie last I saw you?"

"Turned my life around." 

"Yeah, sure looks like it," Mickey scoffed, holding up the joint as proof. But he seemed to look at Carl with fresh eyes. Carl thought he might even approve.

“You ever try to arrest me I’mma cut your dick off,” Mickey warned seriously, pocketing the joint. Carl grinned. Mickey pulled his cap back over his head and put his hand on the doorknob, but turned back to Carl.

“Listen,” he started, his voice laden with meaning.  “I picked you cuz you ain't a snitch.”

“You expecting the news you're out to stay quiet in this neighborhood?”

“Nah, man,” said Mickey. “I'm expecting the news that I've been _here_ to stay quiet.”

Carl thought for a moment about that. It had been, what, give or take eight years since Mickey'd gone in? Ian had moved on ages ago. What was the harm in letting Mickey save a little face?

“I got you,” Carl told Mickey, nodding.

“See ya around,”’ Mickey said without fanfare, slamming the door behind him as he left.

Unbidden, Carl remembered one of his last memories of Ian and Mickey together. It was after Ian had returned from his first trip from the nut house and Ian and Mickey were staying over at the Gallaghers, crowded together in Ian's tiny bed. Carl had woken in the middle of the night to sniffles and soft murmurings below him. He blinked bleary eyes over at the corner bed from his top bunk to make out a Mickey-sized shadow leaning over an Ian-sized lump in the bed.

_“I got you,”_ memory Mickey quoted the words Carl had spoken only moments ago to present day Mickey. _“Ian, I'm here. We got this.”_

Ian had mumbled something into Mickey's shoulder and the sheets rustled and Carl's ears perked up as the distinct sound of kissing filled the room. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he leaned over a little farther to get a better look just in time to see Mickey straddle Ian's waist as the two ground their hips together. Carl had been pleased to note that his dick barely even twitched at the sight. But he was still curious about gay sex, so he kept watching for scientific purposes anyway.

_“Fuck!”_ Ian had whispered in frustration. _“Mick, I can't-”_

_“Relax,”_ Mickey soothed, kissing Ian again. _“I'll do you this time. You wanna roll over or-”_ Mickey stopped talking abruptly as Carl's stolen iPod suddenly clattered to the ground. He whipped his head around and made eye contact with Carl, who could do nothing but blink, so obviously caught rubbernecking. In a flash Mickey was off the bed and dragging Carl from his top bunk by his ear.

_“Fucking pervert,”_ Mickey hissed.

_“I'm not the one fucking in a room full of kids,”_ Carl shot back as he awkwardly clambered down. Mickey shoved Carl towards the bedroom door and pushed him into the dimly lit hallway.

_“Looks like I solved both our problems,”_ he said, smirking before shutting the door firmly in Carl's face.

 

Present day Carl stared at his math homework for another twenty minutes before his phone alarm went off. Then he got up, packed his backpack and headed for the El to get to class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Fiona
> 
> P.S. I tried to avoid reading the multitude of post prison fics out there while I mapped this out, so if my content seems unoriginal, it's coincidental.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that Mickey and Svetlana are still legally married. Enjoy!

Fiona: mid April

* * *

  
Fiona scrubbed her hands down her face as she trudged down the steps of the high school. The meeting had gone about as well as she'd expected it to, with Liam staring straight ahead as the principal played footage of him laughing and fucking _talking_ with his buddies in the cafeteria at school.

“I don't know what to tell ya,” she'd told them, frustration leaking into her voice. “I haven't heard his voice in _months_. He won't listen to me about it.”

“Clearly for Liam, this is about control.” Ms. Miller broke in, steeping her fingers together in front of her mouth as if she were some first rate psychiatrist and not an underpaid South Side school counselor. “He can't control other things in his life, so he chooses to control this.”

“His home life is _fine_ ,” Fiona insisted defensively. “It's been good for years! We might've had a rough patch for a bit when he was little but-”

“No one is blaming you,” Mr. Tande, the principal, interjected in a tone that suggested just the opposite. “What we intended from this meeting was to work out a plan for here at school. Some accommodations for Liam so he doesn't continue to fall behind while he works through his… emotional issues."

Fiona glanced at Liam. He was leveling the air above Mr. Tande’s head with a haughty impassive expression that reminded Fiona of Lip. But he didn't say anything to defend himself.

“I'm willing to do whatever. Anything to help.”

And so they'd made a plan for Liam to opt out of the speech and debate elective and to not be graded for the time being on participation, given that Liam would show up to his weekly appointments with Ms. Miller (fat chance of that- Gallaghers don't _do_ therapy- most of them had tried) and complete an evaluation with the school Speech Language Pathologist _just in case_. Ms. Miller handed Fiona a pamphlet titled _Selective Mutism_ along with her card. She looked practically giddy with the chance to be a true counselor at this school rather than a glorified truancy officer.

Now, an hour later, Fiona emerged into the colder-than-typical April air with Liam shuffling ten paces behind her, silent as ever. They headed in the direction of the Gallagher house that way, walking past the soccer fields, where fans were cheering loudly and clapping glove-covered hands.

Fiona paused when Liam scuffed his sneakers quickly against the sidewalk. She sighed, turning. Liam was still ten paces behind her, but he was facing the soccer fields and pointing.

“What?” Fiona snapped, her patience with her little brother worn to threads for the day. Liam turned and started walking toward the stands. Huffing, Fiona followed him.

They came to a stop at the bottom of the bleachers, where Svetlana sat, looking ridiculously Russian in a fur hat and with a cigarette in her elegant gloveless hand.

“Hey Svet,” greeted Fiona, giving Liam a look. Liam had always gravitated toward Svetlana, even as a little boy. Now Fiona suspected it had more to do with her tits than any sort of motherly vibe.

“American pussies complaining about the cold,” she said in lieu of greeting, scowling at the other fans. “It is beautiful day for soccer. They should come to Russia and really have something to cry about.”

Liam smirked, the closest thing to a smile Fiona had seen on his face in weeks.

“How come you guys are playin' at the high school today?”

“This is traveling team. First day of the season. We get better fields.”

Yevgeny was truly gifted when it came to soccer. Even Fiona could see that, and she knew fuck all about sports. He'd been able to kick the ball around Liam’s legs when he was barely three and Liam seven.

“Yevgeny out there somewhere?” Fiona squinted at the field, searching for and failing to find the dark haired nine year old among all the other players.

“Number 10, in the red,” said Svetlana proudly, flicking away her cigarette. Oh- he's about to-” The decently-sized crowd cheered as red number ten, dressed in a black turtleneck and long pants under his uniform, scored a goal.

“ _Fuck_ yeah!” a man, pacing in front of the field shouted. “That's my kid!”

“Watch your language!" a woman shouted from the stands. The man turned and raised a middle finger in the unidentified woman's general direction.

“Holy shit,” said Fiona. “Is that Mickey?”

The last time she'd seen Mickey was over four years ago, when she'd visited him in prison to tell him that Ian had been committed again, this time for 60 days. She'd been under the (mistaken) impression that they'd been in contact with each other. Mickey had taken the news surprisingly well, though he certainly hadn't been happy to see her. But Ian had taken the news that she’d visited Mickey much worse.

“Move your asses!” The in-the-flesh Mickey shouted to the boys on the field, breaking Fiona from her memory.

“He's gonna get himself kicked out,” observed Fiona. Svetlana only beamed proudly like he was dad of the year.

“Misha,” she yelled out to him. He looked up at her, scowling, but froze when he made eye contact with Fiona. For a moment he looked panicked. His eyes darted around briefly as if looking for an escape route before his perma-scowl quickly returned. Judging by the look on Mickey's face right now, he must have been thinking about his and Fiona’s last meeting too. Well, Fiona wasn’t going to go _there_ again. She’d learned her lesson.

Mickey's hair was shorter than the last time she'd seen him and he was clean shaven. His jeans were styled tighter than she remembered him wearing them before he'd gone in, but he still wore the same too-big winter jacket and carried himself with the same distinctive saunter as he made the short walk toward them.

“Hey Mickey, long time no see. Nice to see you out of the jumpsuit.”

“Don't think orange was my color?” he replied sardonically, glancing between Fiona and Liam before fumbling for and lighting a cigarette. She recognized the nervous habit. She remembered the near dozen cigarettes he’d smoked back to back when they’d gone together to visit Ian in Military Prison all those years ago.

“You remember Mickey, Liam? He was uh, around for a while when you were little.”

Liam lifted one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, but his eyes glinted with some vague recognition. Fiona was getting pretty good at reading his body language at this point.

“Hey, man,” Mickey said to Liam on his exhale, blowing smoke out his nose. “How's it going?” Liam, predictably, said nothing.

“Fuck’s wrong with him?” Mickey asked mildly.

“He thinks he's got it too rough at home so he's taken a vow of silence,” Fiona snipped, tossing a glare to the boy on her left. Mickey raised one unimpressed eyebrow and Svetlana snorted derisively. Liam's life was a picnic compared to a South Side gay man who'd just done 8 years in prison and also had the misfortune of growing up the son of Terry Milkovich, and an illegal immigrant who was sold into sex slavery by her father as a young teenager.

After a long stretch of awkward silence, Fiona started, “So, Mickey-”

“Gotta split,” Mickey interrupted suddenly, stubbing his cigarette out under his boot and touching Svetlana’s elbow before he backed away without a second glance at Fiona or Liam. “Tell the kid good job for me. And text me the final score, yeah?” And he hustled away with only one more glance at the field.

For a moment Fiona just stood, stunned.

“He didn't have to leave because of me.  We were just stoppin’ to say hey before we head home,” Fiona said apologetically to Svetlana, whose eyes were trained on the field again as the opposing team made their way toward the goal.

“He meets his parole officer Saturdays,” Svetlana said, waving away Fiona's concern with a hand.

“How long’s he been out?”

Svetlana muttered in Russian under her breath as the other team scored, then turned her eyes back to Fiona.

“Since end of January.”

“Over _three_ months? You never said anythin'! How am I just learning about this now?” Fiona couldn't help but feel hurt bubble up into her gut. She and Svet and V were close. Their lives were busy with their kids now more than ever but they tried to get together a few times a month to unwind and bitch about everyday life.

“I am not taking any chances,” Svetlana murmured, gazing back out into the field at her son. Fiona followed her gaze and tried to put the pieces together.

“Is this about Ian?”

“It is about him and it is not,” said Svetlana evasively. “I will not have Orange Boy come between my son and his father.”

Fiona's hackles rose, both at the ridiculous nickname Svetlana insisted on using for Ian, and at the implication that Ian would attempt to ruin Mickey and Yevgeny's virtually nonexistent relationship.

“I don't exactly remember Mickey giving much of a shit before,” Fiona snapped, feeling the urge to defend her brother. Ian had really tried to keep a relationship with Yevgeny once he felt he was stable, though God knows why he would. Maybe he felt he owed Yevgeny something. And Mickey- Mickey had been a shitty father from the beginning. He might have been putting in a tiny bit of effort before he went in, but they sure weren't giving out world’s best dad awards in prison.

“It is not so simple. You do not understand." The whistle blew on the field and Svetlana stood.  "Halftime,” she announced.  She stood and jumped down from her spot on the bleachers.

“Svet!” Fiona yelped in hurt surprise as the other woman headed for the players’ bench. Svetlana was acting as though Fiona were a near stranger and not a good friend.

“Did your brother ever tell you how Yevgeny came to be?” Svetlana questioned out of the blue, pausing to face Fiona. Fiona shrugged.

“Ask him. It is long, sad story,” Svetlana warned Fiona, turning and walking away. Fiona glanced back at Liam, who's face belied extreme confusion.

“Yeah,” Fiona sighed. “Me too. Cmon. Let's get home.”

  


“Did Svet tell you Mickey Milkovich is back?” Fiona asked V later that week as they sipped beers in the Ball living room, waiting for Svetlana to arrive. Honestly, Fiona was nervous about seeing her again, based on the way their last conversation went.

“Uh,” V hedged gracelessly, taking another swig.

“You knew! You fuckers!” Fiona accused, betrayed that her two closest friends had kept something so insequential from her.

“He's been working at the bar!” V exclaimed. “He needed a job for his probation!”

“I haven't seen him there,” Fiona said suspiciously.

“He ain't a bartender- Jesus, can you imagine that boy willingly serving people? Nah, he does the bookkeeping.”   Fiona's mouth dropped open in shock.

“You let Mickey Milkovich keep track of the Alibi’s money?! Jesus, V.”

“What?” V cried, folding her arms in front of her chest. “The guy's quick with numbers. He does inventory too, and ain't nobody want that job!”

“Oh my god,” Fiona said into her hands. “Well, it's your business to fuck up I guess.”

“Hey, don't be like that. He's different now than he was then. He's on the straight and narrow.” V laughed at her own joke. “Get it? _Straight_ and narrow?”

“Ha ha.” Fiona glowered into her beer bottle. V put a gentle hand on her arm.

“Svet asked us not to say anything,” V said carefully. “She wanted to give Yev and Mickey as much time as possible before…” she trailed off meaningfully.

“Before Ian found out,” Fiona filled in the blanks. “I don't get it, V. Ian’s seeing someone. He hasn't talked about Mickey in years. And Svet lets Ian see Yevgeny whenever. Why's Svet so worried about Ian getting involved now?”

“You remember how it was then. All Mickey gave a shit about was Ian. He chose Ian over Yevgeny multiple times. I don't really think it's Ian she's worried about.”

“Has Mickey asked about Ian?” Fiona questioned. V shrugged.

“Not to me or Kev. Kev thinks he's dating a buddy from the gym.”

“Sounds like Mickey's moved on too. So why all the secrecy?”

V grabbed Fiona's empty bottle and went into the kitchen to throw it away.

“If you're sure it won't matter to Ian anyway, then what's the harm in keeping it quiet?” V called. “You want another?”

“Yeah,” Fiona called back, growing pensive. It felt wrong to keep Ian in the dark about his first love’s return to society. She'd ask Lip’s advice later.

“Hey,” Fiona started, suddenly remembering something, “what's the story with how Yevgeny was conceived? Svet sorta hinted at somethin' about it.”

“There's a story? I just figured he got his hooker beard pregnant and suffered the consequences.” V plopped back down next to Fiona on the couch and held out a new bottle. “Although,” V said pensively, “They are living together up there. There's only one bed for the two of them. Maybe he's bi.”

“You and Kev and Svet break up?” Fiona teased.

“You know we haven't done that in years,” V said unconvincingly, avoiding Fiona's eyes.

They were interrupted by the opening and closing of the front door as Svetlana let herself into the house.

“I bring box of wine.” She plunked it down on the couch next to Fiona. Never one to mince words, Svetlana launched right into it. “I am sorry for not telling you. But there are things you do not understand.”

“Yeah, you already said that,” Fiona responded snidely. “You gonna start explainin’?”

Svetlana rolled her eyes dramatically and sat down next to V on the opposite end of the sectional from Fiona.

“When my husband went to prison, I think ‘this is it- Yevgeny will never know his father’. So I move on, maybe try to find a replacement. But then, something happened to him in prison. He nearly died.”

“How come you didn't tell us?” V asked softly. “We could've helped you.”

“He asked me not to tell. Only his brothers and sister know. But after it happened, he tells me that he wants to be a father. He wants to be better than he or I had.”

“What happened?” V asked at the same time as Fiona asked “When was this?” It was a little more comforting to know that V didn't know everything.

“Terry Milkovich is what happened,” Svetlana said bitterly. “A year, maybe two years after he went to prison.”

“Oh shit. They were in the same prison?”

“No, but word travels. He sent someone for him.”

“Poor Mickey,” Fiona moaned. “His own father put a hit on him?” God, she slept so much better at night knowing that man was dead.

“I cannot be sure. He will not say it was Terry. He will not talk of it and I do not ask any longer.”

“So Mickey manned up,” V guessed. “Wanted to be a proper dad.”

“As good as one can be from behind bars. So I give him a chance. Again. For years we visit twice a month. Yevgeny draws pictures. Misha sends little cards. We do not speak about Orange Boy. He tried to ask in the beginning, but it was not good for him to hear.”

Fiona was shocked that Svetlana had put so much effort into keeping Mickey in Yevgeny's life all these years. And she hadn't told anyone about, if V’s equally bewildered expression was anything to go by. Fiona wondered how Svetlana had been able to keep the secret from the Balls when they had practically been living together at the time.

Svetlana continued, “But then Ian goes to see him in prison. And for two months after he will not see us. One visit from that man and Yevgeny is nothing again.” Svetlana took the wine glass V offered her and gulped down a mouthful.

“Wait. When was this exactly?” Fiona questioned. Something prickled at her brain.

“Just after Ian went to the crazy house,” Svetlana supplied, looking resigned.

“That asshole!” Fiona gasped, standing and nearly toppling her beer onto the floor. “I knew Ian was seein’ Mickey and he lied to my face about it!” Not only had he lied about it, he'd also yelled at her about meddling in his life, said some shitty things about her own life, then didn't speak to her for almost a month.

“Why'd you keep letting Ian hang out with Yevgeny then? If he made Mickey go away?” V questioned.

“It is not easy for me, but Yevgeny loves him. He was once a better father than Misha could be. Even after stealing my Zhenya while crazy.”

Fiona was still thinking about Ian lying to her about Mickey all those years ago.  Her anger at Ian was dissipating quickly as it usually did with him. She knew she'd probably never confront Ian about it. When he'd yelled at her about not treating him with kid gloves, the opposite had happened. Fiona basically wore oven mitts around him at all times ever since then.

“I think I have to tell him,” Fiona told Svetlana apologetically. “He'll be madder if he finds out I knew and kept it from him. Even if he doesn't care if Mickey's out.”

“Of course you do,” said Svetlana matter-of-factly. “I knew you would, which is why I chose not to tell you.” She scooted over to where Fiona sat, resting a hand on her knee. Fiona noticed Svetlana was wearing a wedding ring. “You are my friend, but blood is thicker than water, as they say. For both of us.”

Translation: you look out for Ian and I look out for Yevgeny.

Fiona understood that.

“I do have one question. What the fuck is ‘Misha’?” All three of them laughed.

“Yeah, what the fuck is that?” V chortled in agreement.

They settled into other topics after that. V was trying to decide whether to enroll the girls in swim or dance this summer. But Fiona was having difficulty focusing. She was thinking about Mickey, and how he'd avoided his family for two months while Ian was in the psych ward. She couldn't help but feel responsible. After all, _she_ was the one who'd told Mickey about Ian's hospitalization.

She remembered the growing panic she'd felt as she watched Ian start to spiral again. He was taking his meds, she was sure of it, but Ian had just broken up with another boyfriend and was back to living at home.

Ian, like Fiona, had never been very good at being single (although Fiona had grown to love it in the last few years). And he was good at his job, but it was stressful. He would come home looking strung out and stay up all hours in the boys’ room, scribbling into a notebook with all his free time. Fiona had glanced in it once when she'd come up to grab laundry and found it sitting on the desk (Ian usually carried it with him).

Although Ian was the neatest of all of them, his handwriting had always been practically illegible. In the quick look she'd managed before Carl pounded up the steps behind her she'd seen the first page of a what looked like a long list. At the top of it, Ian had written and underlined MICKEY in big letters.

 _“You going through Ian's shit?”_ Carl had asked without judgement as he tossed pair of crusty underwear into her basket.

 _“You think he's been actin' different lately?”_ Fiona asked.

 _“Like crazy different?”_  Carl wondered.  Fiona nodded.

“ _Definitely_ ,” was Carl's answer.

A few nights later, after he had been gone from the house all day, Ian had come into the kitchen looking resigned. Calmly, he'd told her that his med dosage wasn't right and his mania had returned. Fiona remembered trying not to cry as Ian, looking older than his 22 years, announced his plans to commit himself to have a safe place to work out his dosage. He'd already requested a leave of absence from his work. He'd be permitted to return with a note from his psychiatrist.

The opposite of Monica. She was so proud of him. So relieved.

Mickey had once been an integral force in Ian's life. She would never forget how Ian had looked to _Mickey_ when he'd checked himself in to the psych ward the first time.  It was burned into her brain how tightly Mickey had held onto Ian when they'd hugged goodbye that day.  The realization of Ian's illness had wrecked Mickey just as much as the rest of them.  She'd thought (and was correct, according to Svetlana's recent revelation) that they were somehow involved again and so Mickey deserved to know.

She'd told Mickey just that as she sat across from him, separated by bulletproof glass in that cold metal visitor’s booth. He'd seemed unsurprised when she'd told him about the hospitalization. But he'd demanded to know why Fiona hadn't recognized the signs sooner.

“ _At least it didn't get as bad as last time under your watch_ ,” she'd shot back and immediately regretted when Mickey's face fell from controlled anger into anguish that he quickly concealed.

“ _I'm sorry_ ,” she'd whispered, swiping her hand down her face. “ _That was a low blow.”_

“ _Whatever_ ,” was his curt reply. “ _You gotta keep a better eye on him.”_

_“Ian's an adult. I can't be babyin’ him all the time. He needs to feel in control of himself. And you know how secretive he is.”_

“ _Yeah_ ,” he'd agreed hollowly. “ _I know_.”  
Their conversation hadn't lasted any longer. The buzzer sounded and Mickey stood to go, hanging up the receiver with no intention of saying goodbye. Fiona tapped the glass to get his attention. _I'll let you know_ , she mouthed to him. He jerked his head once in affirmation, then hustled away, looking as though he was either going to cry or kill someone. Maybe both.

She hadn't gone back. Things with Ian soon imploded and further damaging her relationship with her brother to keep Mickey up-to-date was not worth it. So she left Mickey hanging. At the time Fiona didn't really feel badly about that, but now guilt seeped into her. Maybe Ian had patched things up, but judging by the attitude of both Mickey and Svetlana, that clearly wasn't likely.

“Earth to Fiona!” V was waving her wine glass in Fiona's face. Fiona flushed and smoothed her hair, coming back into the conversation as best she could.

She'd think about it tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Lip
> 
> P.S. Misha is a diminutive form of Mikhail in Russian, as Mike (or Mickey) is to Michael in English. I don't recall ever hearing Svetlana call Mickey by his name in canon (LMK if I'm wrong about this). And I wanted to show that the two of them are much closer now than they were, even though they've been apart for many years.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and feedback! While I primarily wrote this story to satisfy my own muse, its also important that you all enjoy it too!

Lip: mid April 

* * *

  
“Holy shit,” Lip said into the phone.

“I know!” Fiona agreed with more feeling than Lip felt the situation necessitated. “I don't know how he managed to stay hidden in the neighborhood for so long without someone sayin’ somethin’.”

“Well, to be fair, people come and go from prison all the time around here. Especially Milkoviches,” Lip drawled.

“Svetlana _purposefully_  kept it from me,” Fiona insisted. "And she had Kev and V in on it too. Mickey fuckin'  _works_ at the Alibi. Like, legally and everything." Fiona huffed. Lip could practically see her tugging at the roots of her dark hair in agitation.

"So why all the secrecy?" Lip wondered.

"Svetlana's worried Ian and Mickey'll pick up where they left off and Mickey will split."

"Fat chance of that," Lip laughed. "The Ian part, I mean. Besides, why the fuck would she care?"

"She's been takin' Yevgeny to visit him in prison all this time. She says Mickey's tryin' to be a dad. Been tryin' for a while." 

"Huh," Lip replied noncomittally. "What's this got to do with Ian?" Mickey had been  nothing but a distant memory in years. Even before Fiona's slip up years ago he hadn't been mentioned by Ian. That ship had long since sailed.

"Ian's been seeing Mickey too." Fiona's voice sounded simultaneously incredulous and self satisfied. Lip supposed she deserved to feel a little vindicated.

"Well, fuck. Did Svetlana tell you this?"

"She wouldn't go into detail, but he for sure visited before he committed himself a few years ago. I'm not sure if he did again."

Lip thought this through for a minute as Fiona breathed on the other line.

"Maybe he needed some closure or something, I don't know." _Or maybe visiting Mickey is what caused Ian to commit himself in the first place._ He filed that thought away for further contemplation. "You haven't told Ian about this yet?" he confirmed.

"I wanted to talk to you first before I did. I told Svetlana I couldn't keep it from him though."

"So we'll tell him on Sunday," Lip decided. "Can Ian make it to Sunday dinner this week?

"He gets off at three."

"Good. It's settled."

"Why aren't you more worked up about this," asked Fiona suspiciously.

"Why are you _so_ worked up about it?" He challenged. Fiona sighed.

"I think Svetlana got in my head a little." 

“Relax. Have a drink,” he told her lightly.

There was a beat of silence.

“Seriously?” Fiona burst out. “A fucking drinkin’ joke?”

“Hey, if I can't make em, who can?”  
Ever since Lip’s first spectacular fall from grace, in which he'd nearly ruined his chances forever of higher education, the family had been careful to monitor his drinking, which in Lip's opinion was a little ridiculous. So he'd had _one_ short bout of alcohol dependency. He wasn't Frank, just like Ian wasn't Monica.

Whatever, he still liked to drink. And because he was South side, avoiding alcohol was a virtual impossible task. For the sake of his family, Lip settled for a couple beers a week, more if there was a party (there usually was). And if he had a nightcap before bed most nights when he was alone in his apartment, well that wasn't any of their business. Life was good now. He deserved to relax.

He'd finally finished his graduate degree and was working in a research lab for a major car manufacturer. He made decent enough money and could help Fiona out enough to keep them both afloat, even though he was still paying thousands a month in student loan repayments. Fiona would probably never make much more than minimum wage in her life, and Ian had expensive meds to pay for, so it fell to Lip  to help out. He'd always known it would be this way and always sort of resented it back then. But now it was okay. He'd made peace with a lot of things. 

“I'll see you Sunday, Fi. Everything will be fine.” He ended the call and lit a cigarette, leaning against the railing of the deck outside of his lab, and his thoughts returned to Ian, as they often did.

Ian had moved on pretty quickly from Mickey, if Lip remembered correctly. Lip hadn't exactly been firing on all cylinders then, but he remembered meeting a firefighter boyfriend not a year after Mickey went in. That guy and Ian had been pretty serious for a while until the relationship fizzled out. From there on Ian had moved from relationship to relationship, sticking with the same guy for about a year at a time. He didn't really seem to have a physical type, but they all had similar personalities- friendly, open and stable. Good at small talk. Boring as fuck.

Something about making that connection between the various men Ian had dated sparked a thought in Lip’s brain. They were all polar opposites of Mickey. Lip was no psychology expert, but there had to be a reason for that. It was possible that Ian had realized that someone like Mickey wasn't what he wanted. Or maybe he went for the exact opposite of Mickey because Mickey is what he wanted. Somehow he suspected the latter was more likely. Gallaghers craved chaos. It was in their blood. The people they loved needed to have just the right blend of stability and chaos in order for things to work out. Maybe that's why they were always single.

Lip might have had that perfect blend once or twice. He’d pushed it away in favor of straight chaos each time. It was like almost like a continuum, Frank and Monica at the far right edge of chaos-craving, Lip and Carl a little less so, Fiona smack dab in the middle (always Switzerland), and Debbie and Ian weighing down the left side, grappling for stability wherever they could find it, resisting against the inevitable. It was too soon to tell where Liam would fall.

Lip stubbed out his cigarette and returned to work, suddenly feeling a little less nonchalant about opening this can of worms.

  
When Lip arrived at the house on Sunday, everyone was already there. Liam sat on the living room sofa, watching TV. He smiled when he saw Lip, which was something, and Lip clapped him on the shoulder as he went by. Fiona was buzzing around the kitchen and checking to make sure the garlic toast wasn't burning. Carl lounged at the kitchen table flicking through the Chive on his phone. Ian was coming down the back stairs just as Lip entered the kitchen. He was holding a duffle bag. He stepped to the threshold of the kitchen and tossed the bag into the living room, pumping a fist when a muffled “oomph“ told him he'd hit his target.

“Hey,” Lip said to everyone. “Hey Debs,” he said to the iPad propped up on the kitchen table. They tried to FaceTime with Debbie as many Sundays as possible, but she was often busy or working. Tonight she was evidently using her own iPad as a mirror as she curled her hair.

“Hi Lip,” she called after a beat of distracted silence. “I don't have long tonight. Gotta date in a half hour.”

“Liam, dinner!” Fiona shouted. Lip helped Fiona carry everything to the table and the family sat down together.

“Okay Lip, you're up,” Fiona prompted after they'd all dished up for Lip to start the tradition of going around the table and telling everyone what was new since the last they'd seen each other.

“You first,” Lip told her. Fiona rolled her eyes.

“You know me. Just the usual work shit.” Fiona managed a laundromat and dry cleaning service. “Mr. Lunski tried to wash his bloody sheets again. Thinkin’ maybe I should call the cops.”

“Still no boyfriend?” Debbie asked, moving on to eyeliner. They got a close up view of her eyeball.

“Not really looking,” Fiona sighed. “Maybe one day.”

“This is like the longest stretch you've ever been single,” Lip teased.

“Okay, Mr. Terminal bachelor. Your turn.” Lip hummed, thinking.

“Automatic seat belts are back in,” he told them. “They're testing them in the luxury models.”

“Fascinating,” said Carl drily. “Pass the parmesan.”

“That's all I got," Lip said after a beat. He shrugged, motioning for Ian to take his turn. He _was_ sort of seeing someone, his secretary in fact, but they didn't need to know that. He didn't need another lecture from Fiona about power dynamics in relationships after _Helene_.

“I helped deliver a baby the other day,” Ian said, smiling softly.

“Aww,” Fiona and Debbie cooed simultaneously.

“Boy or girl?” Debbie asked.

“A little boy. The mother said she didn't know she was pregnant. Said she thought she'd just had some bad tacos.” Everyone laughed at that. “And,” Ian continued, “Phil and I are going to take a trip. We haven't decided where yet. But definitely somewhere tropical. I've never seen the ocean.” Neither had the rest of them, except Lip.

“Take me with you,” Debbie moaned forlornly. “I hate Indiana.”

“You could always come home,” Fiona said, failing to mask the edge to her voice. Debbie ignored her older sister and caught them up on her three roommates and her waitressing job and, briefly, dental technician school, which Lip suspected she was making up as she went along.

Sometimes to Lip it seemed like Debbie was trying to desperately relive the teenage years she'd never really had. Her decision to allow Frannie’s paternal grandparents to raise Frannie when she was just a little over a year old had sent her into a depressive spiral that had them all worried that Monica’s genes had struck again. But on her 19th birthday she'd sat Fiona down and told her she'd needed a fresh start somewhere else. And she hadn't been back to Chicago for more than a week at a time since.

“School sucks,” Carl said matter-of-factly when Debbie finally passed the proverbial baton. “But I'm still on track to graduate in August.” The older Gallaghers whooped. Fiona grilled him for a few minutes about what kind of party he wanted (beer and hot chicks was the only thing she got out of him).

"I can guarantee only one of those things," Fiona teased.

At Liam's turn he stared into his water glass while Fiona told them all about what the school was doing to accommodate for his silent treatment.

“And he still talks to his buddies,” she announced, throwing up her hands. “He just can't stand to talk to his family. Not even me- the person who raised him!"

“I don't think it's that simple, Fiona,” said Ian carefully. “I looked into it. Selective mutism is an anxiety disorder.”

“I think he's being a little shit,” Carl offered unhelpfully. Ian rolled his eyes but didn't engage further.

“Gotta go,” Debbie said suddenly. “John’s here.”

“Aren't you gonna introduce us?” Lip teased. Debbie made a face, then the screen went black.

“I'll start washing dishes”, Ian offered, standing with his empty plate. He grabbed Lip’s too and headed for the sink. Fiona and Lip made eye contact. Lip nodded at her silent question.

“Yeah, me too,” Carl whispered sarcastically, “good talk guys.” Carl hated it when he felt that he wasn't included in the “adult“ discussions and was a surprisingly observant fucker.

“I have some more neighborhood news,” Fiona said loudly over the sound of the running water, her tone cheerfully nonchalant. “I bumped into Mickey Milkovich last weekend at the high school. Looks like he's outta prison.”

Lip watched Ian carefully. Ian paused in his scrubbing at the mention of Mickey's name, but his neutral expression didn't change.

“Was he re-enrolling?” Ian asked, rinsing the plate and setting on the drying rack and then starting on the second one.

“Huh?” Lip questioned.

“Fiona said she saw him at the high school. I was making a joke.”

“Oh,” said Fiona, blinking. She, Carl, Liam and Lip sat awkwardly, unmoving, staring at Ian's profile at the sink. “Actually, he was watching Yevgeny's soccer game.” Ian did look a little surprised at that. He dried his hands and turned to his family, still seated at the table.

“Yevgeny never said anything to me,” Ian said. “I saw him for his birthday just last month and neither Yev or Svetlana said anything.” He sounded confused, yet controlled.

“V says he's living with them,” Fiona told Ian. “I guess he's like, trying to be a dad.”

“Better late than never,” Lip joked. Both Fiona and Ian shot him a look.

“It's not his fault he was locked up for nine years,” Fiona chided.

“Actually, it kinda is,” Lip pointed out.

“Eight and a half,” Ian corrected Fiona flatly. “It's been eight and a half years.”

“The _point_ is that he's out now, and he’s tryin’,” Fiona scolded Lip, ignoring Ian. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

The room fell silent at that. No one understood the power of second chances like the Gallaghers.

“I'm glad you told me,” Ian told Fiona genuinely. “Hopefully he'll stay out of trouble this time.” Lip thought that was incredibly unlikely, given the statistics on repeat offenders and the simple fact that Mickey was a Milkovich.

“Who's ready to get their ass kicked at Cranium?” Ian asked the rest of the still-pensive room, making it clear that the subject was changed.

“Me, Fiona and Ian against Lip,” Carl decided. “You can have Liam,” he offered Lip offhandedly.

“Gee, thanks,” said Lip, still watching Ian, who had returned to the sink but was scrubbing the same spot over and over again, his eyes resting on nothing in front of him.

 

 

Later, Carl and Lip shared a joint on the back steps. Fiona didn't imbibe often, and Ian even less so due to the nature of his job (and his meds), so it was just the two of them out there, huddling close for warmth. At least, until Carl became a cop. Then Lip would have to drag Liam out here when Fiona wasn't looking.

Carl was great, but Lip missed the easy companionship that he and Ian used to share. Splitting a joint at the end of the day had been their thing, up until Mickey Milkovich and The Illness came along. The combination of the two had pulled Ian farther and farther from Lip. And then Mickey had gone and it was only Bipolar. The meds were doing wonders, especially now, and Lip was grateful. But sometimes Ian's dry jokes coupled with his flatter affect would fall too short. His adherence to his schedule left little room for shooting the shit with his older brother.

But Lip would take this version of Ian any day over the fast talking, barely sleeping, manic version of Ian that was around when Mickey was with him.

Logically, Lip knew that Mickey was not the cause of Ian's disorder. But the moment Ian had kicked Mickey to the curb (and Mickey conveniently went to prison) Ian started to manage his disorder. And when Ian nearly fell down the rabbit hole again four years later, it was  to none other than Mickey Milkovich that the mania led him.

“Quit worrying,” Carl ordered suddenly, jolting Lip out of his thoughts.

“Aren't you?” Lip challenged in return. Carl shrugged.

“Not more than usual.”

“Look,” Lip began, “you were just a kid when all this went down. You only remember a time when Mickey used to care about Ian. But before that, he fucked with Ian's head. Like over and over. Ian left for the army because of him, and you know how great that turned out.”

“You saying _Mickey_ made Ian crazy?” Carl asked incredulously.

“No, I'm saying it _triggered_ him. And I'm worried it'll happen again if Mickey tries to get involved in Ian's life.”

“You aren't giving Mickey enough credit,” said Carl sagely. “He's not interested in getting back with Ian at all.”

“And how the fuck would you know?”

“He told me,” Carl said, a touch of pride coloring his tone. “He came to me to make sure Ian was still doing okay. I told him that Ian was doing really great now, and Mickey said he wasn't interested in getting back with him, just was worried is all.”

“When was this?”

“Couple months ago maybe.” Carl shrugged. “Early February? He hadn't been out long.”

“ _Over_ two months ago? And you're just telling me now.” Lip’s voice was rising against his will.

“He asked me not to,” said Carl defensively. “Besides, what the fuck does it matter? They're both over it. Ian hardly even comes to South side any more. It's not like they'll be running into each other a lot.” Lip sighed, conceding to Carl's point a bit. Only a week ago he'd been the one to talk Fiona off this ledge, and here Carl was doing the same for him.

“Pretty sure Mickey has a boyfriend,” Carl shared offhandedly. “He doesn't like, say much about it, but I'm pretty sure.”

“What, are you hanging out with the guy now too?”

“He lives above the Alibi, man. Working there too. I'm there like twice a week.”

“He's _working_ at the Alibi," Lip intoned incredulously. "What, tending bar?” Carl laughed and shook his head.

“Not sure exactly. But he's different now.” Carl hesitated before continuing, “If they maybe did want to get together- you know, sometime in the future- I don't think it would be a totally bad thing.”  

Lip had nothing to say to that, and Carl didn't seem to expect him to.  He tossed the dead joint into the yard and got up from the cold steps with a groan, leaving Lip alone with his thoughts.  Lip leaned his head back on the steps and tried to remember how Ian was _before_ Mickey and bipolar and all that bullshit that went along with them.

His brain conjured up an image of Ian's goofy grin as he sat behind the register of the Kash n Grab. This version of Ian was still a little gangly and awkward and covered in freckles (seriously, where had those _disappeared_ to _?)._ And he was grinning at something- someone. Younger Mickey, scrawnier then too, but already looking older than his years thanks to his upbringing, leaned against the counter, pretending to flick through a magazine as he grinned cheekily back at Ian. The grin had always turned into a scowl and a quick retreat and hasty threat of violence thrown Ian's way when he caught sight of Lip (or anyone else) walking into the store. Jesus, they'd been so _obvious._ Like anyone would believe that Mickey had to go into the Kash n Grab _that_ often to threaten his sister's boyfriend.

It had actually been pretty smart of them to have Mickey start working there the next summer.  Lip shuddered, thinking of the amount of jizz that must coat the floor in that back room.

Lip snorted, annoyed with himself that he'd searched for a Mickey-free memory of teenage Ian and it had backfired. 

If Lip was having trouble keeping his mind off Mickey, how must Ian feel right now? 

The back door opened, and Lip raised his chin to look upside down from his sprawled position on the steps. Ian smiled down at him. He was wearing his coat.

"I'm heading out," he told Lip. "Wanted to say bye before I left." 

"Okay," Lip said, sitting up. "Listen, you doing okay?" 

"Yeah," answered Ian, brows furrowing in annoyance. "Are _you_ doing okay?" He always got this way when his family paid special attention to him due to his disorder.

"Not the bipolar shit, man. Mickey." 

Ian blinked. He took two steps forward and plunked down next to Lip.

"It's just weird is all. When he went in it sort of felt like he'd be in there forever." 

"And you're... glad he's back?" 

"I'm happy for him, like I said." 

"But that's it," Lip prompted. Ian huffed a laugh.

"You looking to play matchmaker or something?"

"The exact opposite, actually," Lip replied mildly. "Just wanted to see where your head's at." 

"We broke up for a reason," Ian said firmly. 

"Because you weren't ready to be medicated?" Lip tried to keep his tone neutral, but if he was honest with himself, he'd never really understood the reasoning behind the breakup. Ian had been vague and Lip mostly uninterested at the time.

"We weren't the people we fell in love with anymore. He didn't sign up to deal with my crazy shit for a lifetime. And I'd wanted what I couldn't have for so long, that once I got it-" Ian paused, shrugging his shoulders. 

"Didn't live up to the hype?" Lip guessed.

"No, it was good. He was good. I can't explain it." Ian frowned. 

"So the sex sucked?" Lip attempted a little humor. Ian smirked.

"No, that was  _always_  good." Ian waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Lip groaned. Ian continued, more subdued, "I don't remember a lot about that time but I remember something Monica said, about being with people who's hearts don't break when they look at you. And that's all Mickey was doing. Just me being me was breaking his heart." 

"So you took relationship advice from Monica." Lip fished out a cigarette from his pocket and lit up, shaking his head at Ian. Ian's mouth fell open a little, as if he'd only just realized this.

"I guess so," he said after a beat, laughing softly. Then, more quietly, "Maybe I didn't think I deserved it."

"Deserved what? Love? If you thought that were true you wouldn't have gone and fallen in love with that gay firefighter a hot minute after they stuck the cuffs on Mickey."

Ian reared back, feigning affront. 

"Who's side are you on?"

Lip took a drag to collect his thoughts. He _did_ sound like Mickey's number one cheerleader right now.

"Yours," Lip told Ian, as serious as he could be. "Always yours." They locked eyes. Ian clapped Lip heavily on the shoulder, then leaned his weight on his brother to stand.

"Don't worry about me," he said, heading to the door. "It's in the past now. I'm not interested in going backwards." He opened the door and a wave of heat hit Lip in the face. "See you next Sunday." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Ian
> 
> The pace picks up after this chapter. Thanks for sticking with me!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm nervous about this one. I hope it lives up to expectations.

Ian: early May

* * *

  
Ian glances at the phone in his armband as he rounds out mile number three. At the next block he'll double back to make it an even six and still make it back in time to have breakfast with Phil before Phil heads into work. Ian hardly slept the night before, or all the nights in the week before that. He can feel his body humming with something, simmering just below the surface. Times like this, the only thing to ease the sensation is a long run or a busy shift. Maybe it's time for another med tweak.

He knows when the feeling started. A few days after Fiona had told him Mickey was out of prison, he'd woken at seven AM the morning after an overnight shift. Usually he can sleep until noon easily on the weeks he's on overnights, but this time his brain just couldn't shut down.

It just happens to be coincidental that the two things- Mickey's return and the gentle, medicated version of mania- happened at once. He knows this. But the thoughts that Ian has kept locked up for so long are spilling out as he tosses and turn restlessly next to Phil at night. 

It had been easier in the beginning, to deny. When he'd started seeing Caleb he was still running from things. He'd been desperate to move on, to prove to himself that he didn't need nursing. That he wasn't reduced to only his disorder. And that needed to happen with someone who had never known "before" Ian.  Someone who didn't look at him mourning who he once was. 

So he denied the meaningfulness of Mickey to himself and to others. He told Caleb snippets of things about his only real boyfriend, of course, but he said them flippantly. He lessened their importance. 

After Caleb, it was easy just to slip into that story: first boyfriend was a closeted asshole. Got married to a hooker. Went to prison, the end.

He'd made the mistake once, several boyfriends ago, of getting too drunk on too little and telling Mickey's whole life story. His then-boyfriend had cried the whole time and then dumped him for being the asshole in the story.

After that, he stopped mentioning Mickey  at all. It just became habit. 

Today, Ian jogs past storefronts, slowing down a little when he spots a familiar beat up truck parked on the curb in front of a large building with a faded sign for a gym and boxing ring. About a month ago he'd ran into Kev on his way into Fiona's and Kev had raved about this new place that was helping him get back into shape. The years of getting older and consuming lots of alcohol daily had caused to get a little thicker all over, but particularly in his gut.

Ian slows his jog and stops in front of the gym. Might as well say hey while they're both in the area. Maybe he'd check out the gym too. His strength training has been slacking lately.

It's bigger on the inside than it looks from the street, and dingy and dark. It's busy, too. On the left hand side are men- the lunkhead types with their gallon jugs of water- scattered about various weight equipment. There isn't any cardio equipment in sight. On the right a small crowd is gathered around a boxing ring. Ian sees Kev, leaning against the ring with his back to him.

“Hey Kev,” Ian greets him, clapping the larger man on the shoulder.

“Oh hey Ian! How's it going?”

“Not too bad. So this is the gym you were telling me about.”

“This is the one. Mickey tell you how to get here?”

“Mickey?” Ian repeats dumbly, not following.

“You came to see him fight, right?” Kev gestures to the ring where two shirtless men are ducking and jabbing around one another.

Ian freezes in shock as he gazes into the ring. Mickey is grinning through his mouth guard, a familiar predatory glint his eyes, as he bounces from foot to foot avoiding his partner’s jabs.

He looks a little older around the eyes, and his forehead has a few beginning frown lines. Mickey had always been on the stocky side for his shorter stature, but now he looks broader than ever as the muscles of his arms and shoulders flex with exertion. His stomach, which had always been a little softer than the rest of him, is taught with muscles.

He looks good.

His pale skin is mottled from heat and sweat in splotches along his chest and back. Inky black outlines of a flock of birds in flight, starting small but growing larger, trail from the lower left half of his back all the way up to the top of his right shoulder. He also has large black tick marks, eight in total, on his right forearm. There's a smaller tattoo that Ian can't make out from his distance that's partially concealed by his shorts on the inside of his right hipbone. It looks like a word, or maybe initials.

Two short raised red scars stand out along his left ribs.   _Surgery_ _scars_ , Ian's paramedic brain supplies. _Or, more likely, stab wound scars_. Their location means that they probably punctured a lung. Ian's chest constricts.

Finally, Ian's eyes linger on the bold block letters that spell his own name just above Mickey's heart. His memories of visiting Mickey in prison those few times in the beginning are foggy at best, but he remembers that tattoo. He's extremely surprised Mickey had never covered it up though. What must it have been like, having a man’s name tattooed on your chest during your many years in prison? The thought makes Ian feel suddenly sick.

“Oh shit,” Kev says beside him, causing Ian to break his stare. “I forgot you didn't know.”

“Fiona told me. First I'm seeing him though.”

“He's pretty good, right?”

“Yeah,” Ian agrees, but he isn't surprised. “Is this a real fight?”

“Nah, if it were they'd be in the cage.”

Ian follows Kev's gesture further into the gym where the MMA cage looms.

“Max has been doing this since high school,” Kev tells Ian, indicating the other man in the ring. “He's 23, but still. Mick’s a natural and he's only been doing it a few months.”

“They have MMA in prison?” Ian wonders. Kev frowns.

“I dunno.”

“But you said-”

“Nice hit!” An older man shouts on Kev's left as Mickey lands a solid blow. Ian unzips his hoodie and pulls his hat from his head. Something catches Mickey's eye as he does so and suddenly Mickey is frozen in his spot, arms raised defensively in front of him as he and Ian make eye contact for a long second.

Until Mickey earns a solid kick to the head as punishment for his distraction and the small crowd, including Kev and Ian, all groan in sympathy.

He goes down like a ton of bricks, clearly seeing stars as his head lolls when he rolls onto his back. His partner takes advantage of this and quickly straddles Mickey's hips, arms raised to hit. Ian tenses. But the guy only traps Mickey's arms over his head and leans over him until their chests touch. He laps once at Mickey's injured cheek with his tongue and laughs wickedly when Mickey yelps in surprise. Around the ring, some of the men catcall while others shout objections.

“Get a fucking room, you two,” the same old man yells as Mickey bucks the guy off of him. “Do that faggy shit on your own time, not in my ring.”

“Don't worry about him,” Kev says lowly to Ian, sensing his apprehension. “Buck’s all bark and no bite.”

The other guy is still laughing as Mickey shoves him away, scowling as he get to his feet. The men around the ring, including Buck, drift away as Mickey makes his way to where Kev and Ian are standing, his partner following behind him. The other guy is scrawnier than Mickey, but he's even more cut. His skin is tan in a way that suggests he fake bakes. His blonde hair is pulled back into a short ponytail. He's got a smattering of freckles on his face and laughing blue eyes. He looks like he belongs in a surf shop in California and not a grungy gym in Chicago.

“You seein’ little birdies?” Kev teases as Mickey stops in front of them, looking down at them from in the ring.

“It ain't _my_ fault. If I hadn't caught the glare from Red’s fuckin’ stoplight hair over there I'dve been fine,” Mickey accuses, icy eyes staring challengingly into Ian's own.

“Sorry,” Ian says automatically. He feels like the cogs of his brain are moving at a snails pace. He hasn't prepared himself for this. 

“Well, this isn't fucking awkward at all,” Kev deadpans after a long beat of silence.

"Who's your friend?" The other guy directs the question at Kev, but it's Mickey who answers him.

"That's Ian," he says matter of factly. He's still looking at Ian, his expression no longer aggressive but difficult to read. 

The other guy's amused smirk turns into a wide grin. 

"This is the famous Ian Gallagher?" the guy crows. He pokes at the tattoo on Mickey's chest and Mickey flushes and scowls. "How's it going, man? I'm Max." The guy swings down from the ring like a monkey and sticks his hand out for Ian to shake. Ian does so, a little bewildered. "You are not at all what I expected," Max continues, a little gleefully. Ian isn't sure by his tone if he should be offended or not.

"Uh," says Ian. Mickey swings down from the ring too and lands next to Max. They're about the same height. Max might have Mickey by an inch or two.

"Hey, Max, why don't we go over here and uh..." Kev, unable to stand the tension any longer, grabs Max by the shoulder and starts to push him away from Mickey and Ian. "I don't know, man, let's just go this way." 

"Smooth," Mickey taunts, shaking his head at Kev.

Max just shrugs, and grips Mickey by the back of the neck for a moment. "No funny business," he warns Ian as he backs away. His eyes are laughing, so Ian knows he's teasing, but Ian is sort of itching to deck him.

"So how're you doing?" Mickey prompts after another beat of silence. 

"Good," Ian says, reaction delayed. He wishes Mickey would have put on a shirt. His sweat is beginning to cool and in its place tiny goosebumps are appearing all over his chest.

 He knows Mickey knows he's staring, because Mickey shifts his weight  uncomfortably then snaps, "Earth to fuckin' Gallagher!" 

"Sorry," Ian says quickly, snapping his eyes up to Mickey's face, where a dark bruise is blooming, and away from the tattoo on his hipbone. It's definitely initials: TRK. Or maybe it stands for something. "It's just- you look really different. Not bad different- you look good, surprisingly. I mean, I'm not surprised you look good- fuck."  He actually was a little surprised that Mickey looked as well and healthy as he did. He's seen lifers from the neighborhood coming in and out of prison looking harder and meaner each time (Mickey's own father included). Mickey's different, but not worse. 

Mickey's face shifts from uncomfortable annoyance into amusement as Ian stumbles awkwardly over his words.

"You look good too, Gallagher," he says, looking Ian up and down appreciatively before he rearranges his face into a more neutral expression. Ian suppresses a smile. He'd forgotten that look of blatant attraction Mickey had occasionally favored him with when he least expected it.

"So how long you been out?" 

"Bout four months," Mickey answers, shifting his weight. This gives Ian pause.

" _Four_ months?" he repeats a little incredulously.

"Yeah," Mickey confirms, watching Ian curiously. 

"Jesus," Ian breathes. "I thought you'd been out a few weeks! Why didn't anyone tell me?" 

"Does it matter?" Mickey asks blandly, looking directly into Ian's eyes, gaze unwavering but face impassive.

"No," Ian says slowly. "I guess it doesn't."  

They just look at each other for a minute. 

"Anyway," Mickey says finally. He starts to inch away from Ian like he can't handle another moment in his presence. "You're good, I'm good, we got this shit out of the way." He waves a hand between them. 

"Right." Ian nods his head.

Mickey's eyebrows furrow and he gnaws on his lip even as he keeps backing away. He's battling with himself, wondering if he should say something. 

"I know shit's weird between us, man. But like I said last time, if you ever need anything you know you can-" He makes that same gesture between their bodies.

 _Last time_.  Last time, four years ago, when Ian had gone to visit Mickey for reassurance that he needed help. To see a familiar face that recognized the signs. 

"Yeah," Ian says. He clears his throat. "Yeah, you too. If you need anything."

"Yeah, okay Gallagher," Mickey says. Ian detects a lilt of sarcasm in his tone. Like he thinks Ian would never return the favor. Guilt rises like bile in his stomach. "I'll see you around." He lifts his hand in a half wave, then turns to go. Ian watches the way the bird silhouettes ripple as he walks for a moment before he calls out. 

"Hey, Mick!" 

Mickey swivels around, eyebrows doing that annoyed-expectant thing that he's  graced Ian with a thousand times in the past. 

"It really is good. To see you." It's mostly true. It's better and worse than he'd imagined it to be, in those rare moments he's allowed himself to think about it.

Mickey gnaws on his lip. He nods once. Then he turns and keeps walking. 

Ian doesn't even bother to find Kev to say goodbye. He yanks his hat back on his head and books it. 

He wanders around the block for a bit before he can manage to get his bearings. Then he sets off in the direction of home, thankful that his pit stop had taken enough time to miss seeing Phil this morning. 

He takes the El instead of jogging. He sits in a crowded car next to morning commuters and tries to process long-dormant thoughts.

He doesn't really remember the breakup all that well, but he knows even now that it had felt like the right thing to do. He'd needed some space- some time to decide how to move forward on his own. He'd felt like Mickey was suffocating him with his worry and devotion. 

And Mickey- Mickey had suddenly gone from not enough to too much. He was always there, always looking out for him, unwaveringly in his corner.  Ian wasn't used to being the center of someone's world like that. It was terrifying to know that if he slipped up, he took Mickey down with him.

He couldn't visit Mickey in prison.  He couldn't.  Those couple times he'd gone in the beginning had been agony for both of them. Mickey had been desperate to have Ian in his life and Ian was desperate to move on. And because Mickey couldn't have him anyway, and Ian was stuck in place when he was there, it just had to stop. Mickey seemed to realize this too, because he didn't call or write. 

But Ian _did_ go back, four years later. Like all things he's done when he's manic, the memories become slightly foggy once he's back to being medicated.  

 

 

He was reading the paper one morning in the Gallagher kitchen when he was certain he'd found a hidden message written for him from Mickey. Ian had ignored it, chopping it up to a coincidence, but the feeling of alarm lingered over the course of the week until Ian's thoughts grew increasingly more agitated. Something was wrong with Mickey. He needed help.

_Mickey needed Ian to break him out of prison._

Miraculously, Ian was trying his second attempt at therapy at the time, and he discussed his concerns with her about the messages. She felt that Ian's anti-psychosis wasn't working correctly for him. 

He was resistant to changing medications. This one had fewer side effects for him and he really appreciated not having to worry about erectile dysfunction (not that he was getting any at the time) on his current drug.

But he knew he wasn't behaving entirely rationally. He could see it in Fiona's smile every time they had a conversation.

Mickey had just stood and looked at him across the glass what felt like an eternity, before a guard stepped forward and urged him with a nod to sit. Ian ran his hands through his hair, down his pant legs, over his face. 

 _"I think it's happening again._ " Ian breathed anxiously into the phone when Mickey finally put the receiver to his ear.

" _What is?_ " Mickey's tone was hollow.

 _"The mania. The- delusions,"_ Ian stuttered. Mickey's eyelids shuttered closed for a long moment. Finally,

 _"You sure_?"

" _I keep- keep having these thoughts. About you. That something's wrong and you need my help. You're sending me messages that you need me to help you escape."_ Mickey's eyes widened infinitesimally. 

" _You been taking your meds_?"

" _Yeah. I'm seeing this- this shrink lady. She thinks my anti-psychotic needs to be changed,"_ he said haltingly, embarrassed to admit that he was in therapy. But Mickey didn't make fun.

" _I think she's fuckin' right about that,"_ was all he said, face grim and usually full lips set into a thin line.

" _I'm scared, Mick_ ," Ian admitted. Mickey ran a hand over his face, blowing out a long breath into the phone receiver.

" _Listen_ ," he said with definiteness, " _Everything else was going okay for you before this, right? Like a job, relationships, all that shit_?"

Ian shrugged.

" _Hasn't effected my job yet. But it might start to."_ He didn't tell him about the recent breakup.

" _Then you gotta take care of this. Go somewhere safe where they can figure out your meds. Somewhere you can't get yourself in hot water._ "

" _You mean like- commit myself?_ "

" _Yeah, if you gotta. If you don't, what if I keep sending you messages and you come busting in here one day with some half cocked escape plan? Then my ass would be locked up in solitary and you'd be in a straight jacket_." Mickey gave him a small smirk for the first time since sitting down, and Ian breathed a laugh despite himself.

" _Look, if you don't go to the hospital, d'you at least got someone who can look out for you, make sure you stay safe?_ " Mickey's gaze flickered over Ian's face and landed somewhere near Ian's left shoulder.

" _I've been home for a while. I think Fiona knows something's wrong."_  

Ian sniffed. He felt relief seeping into his shoulders. In contrast, Mickey looked overwrought.

" _You've been doing good though? Y'know, aside from this shit?"_ Mickey twirled his pointer finger near his temple in the universal sign for 'crazy'. 

" _Yeah_ ," Ian confirmed. " _What about you?"_

Mickey snorted derisively, holding his arms up in a take-a-look gesture. Ian took a long look at him for the first time since sitting down. His hair was shaved short. He had a green-yellow shiner around his left eye and a healing split lip. The knuckles on his hands were bruised over. 

 _"Can't complain_." Mickey's tone is laced with casual sarcasm. 

" _I'm sorry I had to come here,"_ Ian apologized after a long beat of silence _. "I know you probably didn't- Thanks for seeing me."_

The smirk disappeared from Mickey's face again. 

" _Just get some help_ ," Mickey ordered him, " _so you can keep on living your life."_  Ian nodded _._

The buzzer signaled. Around them people and prisoners started moving. 

" _Ian_ ," Mickey said seriously. " _You ever need somethin',_ " he gestured around himself. " _You know where to find me_." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Carl
> 
> So here's where I'm at: I don't totally hate the breakup scene in 5x12. I think it was actually in character for Ian to dump him and say some possibly illogical things. He was young and confused and manic and mourning the person he thinks he'll never be again. He was also in a very intense relationship in which he was the other person's sole focus. He needed some space, some time. I don't think it would have been the end though, had Mickey not been locked up.
> 
> I could write way more on my feelings about Mickey going to prison, but I'll maybe save that for the next chapter, where we learn a tiny bit more about Mickey's time in the can.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: Rape/non-con tag has been added due to (non-graphic) discussion of prison rape. Read safely, friends!**
> 
> Here, have a little Mickey-Carl bromance (plus some important prison backstory). They were made to be best friends, I just know it.
> 
> Also, just a dash of Frank. Sorry.

Carl: mid May

* * *

 Carl knew the Alibi like the back of his hand. He knew how many paces it took to get from the door to the bar. He could make it to the men's room with his eyes closed, expertly weaving around the regulars at their regular tables. He could name the labels of the alcohol bottles behind the bar from memory. 

It sounded kind of (okay, completely) pathetic when he thought of it out of context like that, but considering he'd spent many hours of his childhood in the place, the Alibi had kind of become a second home to him. It felt comfortable. Safe. 

And it was where he found himself at 10:30 on a Wednesday morning, sitting next to Frank on a barstool, nursing a beer. Well, he had been sitting next to Frank. His father's borrowed liver was currently revolting (and had been for several months now whenever Frank took more than a few sips of alcohol) in the Alibi bathroom. Frank was a persistent fucker, though.

"Hey man." Carl turned to the voice. Mickey strode up to him from the direction of the back room. He was wearing an old band t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and had a tool belt around his waist. "Little early for a drink, don't you think?" 

Mickey and Carl had actually hung out a little, shooting the shit on nights that Carl came to the Alibi and Mickey was just finishing up his work for the day. Carl had always been sort of enamored with Mickey as a kid. He was street smart and tough and didn't take shit from anyone. All things Carl aspired to be.

Carl held up his lone glass, dregs still at the bottom. 

"Only having one. Celebrating." 

Mickey made a show of glancing around the near empty bar, one eyebrow quirked to his hairline.

"By yourself?"

"With Frank, actually." He realized that didn't make the situation look any better, but whatever. It had sort of happened organically. They were both at the right place at the right time.

Mickey's other eyebrow rose to meet it's  mate high on his forehead.

"Your dad's moanin' and groanin' over a toilet right now. Just came from there."

Carl shrugged. Sounded about right.

"He don't look so hot. In general, I mean. Not just right now."

"Yeah, won't be much longer now. They gave him maybe ten years about ten years ago." 

"Jesus, don't look so choked up about it." Mickey actually looked a little disgusted by Carl's nonchalance. 

"Were you sad when your dad died?" Carl asked Mickey, genuinely interested in the answer. He'd been trying to sort through his feelings about his father his whole life.

Mickey scoffed dismissively at first, but his face changed instantly as if regretting his knee-jerk reaction. He bit his lip and considered.

"Mostly I just felt fuckin' relieved," Mickey huffed out with a little laugh. "But it's like, he's the one who made me. The one who brought me up and taught me shit. Like how to swing a bat."

"Your dad taught you how to swing a bat?" Carl queried incredulously.

"Yeah- at someone's kneecap." They snorted together. "So what are you celebrating?" Mickey abruptly changed the conversation.

"Took my last final for the semester."

"No shit! Congrats, man. You gonna graduate soon?" They slapped hands in celebration.

"Nah, not til August. Fucking summer classes." 

"You Gallaghers and your overachieving summer school. Buncha nerds."

"Lip never did summer school." 

"Nah man, Ian. He was taking all these summer classes to help him get into West Point back in high school."

"Oh yeah," affirmed Carl. "Forgot about that." 

"Probably good that didn't work out. Dude hates being told what to do."  Mickey sniffed in amusement, shaking his head. He hesitated for a moment, thumbing his lip before he said, attempting an air of indifference, "Saw him a few weeks ago."

"Who, Ian?"

"Yeah. He looked good. Was acting shifty as fuck though. You sure he's doing okay?"

Carl shrugged. He didn't see Ian often enough these days to recognize the difference easily.

"Reminded me a little of-" Mickey stopped abruptly, shaking his head. "You know what- doesn't fuckin' matter. Hey, you got a sec?"

"Do I _look_ busy?" Carl drawled impassively.

"You _look_ like a fuckin' loser. C'mon and help me with something. It goes faster as a two man job." 

"I'm not sucking you off," Carl joked drily as he got up from his stool. 

"Please, you fucking wish you could have this." 

Carl followed Mickey into the store room, where Mickey handed him a tall ladder and grabbed a long box of fluorescent bulbs. 

"You want me to do the honors, shorty?" 

Mickey flipped him off as they set up the shit in the middle of the bar. 

"Fuck off. I get workman's comp if I get hurt. Just hand me the lights when I need 'em." 

They worked in relative silence, Mickey handing down the old fluorescent rods and Carl giving him new ones.

"Wow. It's way brighter in here now," Carl commented as Mickey screwed in the last bulb in the panel. "How long have these been burnt out?"

"Probably since 1995." 

"Ah, the nineties. That was a wild decade. Can hardly remember half of it." 

Both men turned to the voice. Frank was stumbling over to them, holding himself up on tables as he went.

Mickey scowled as he descended the ladder. 

"Need me to drag your ass to the sober booth, Frank?"

Frank glared bloodshot eyes at Mickey.

"I'm _not_ drunk, unfortunately. Gave it the old college try but my liver won't have it anymore."

"Then get the fuck out of my bar if you ain't gonna patronage."

" _Your_ bar?" Frank scoffed dramatically. "Since when has this been your bar? I tell ya, give a man a little power and suddenly he thinks he rules the world. I have news for you, my felonious friend: A crown is merely a hat that lets the rain in." 

"Are you fucking high?" Mickey asked at the same time as Carl's more succinct "the fuck?" Frank tsked at their ignorance.

"You know," Frank said to Mickey, waving a finger in his face, "they have opportunities for inmates such as yourself to get a little education in the clink. Pity you were too busy being bent over a cell bunk."

Mickey went rigid beside Carl. His hands curled into fists.

"Shut up, Frank," Mickey snarled in warning. Frank's eyes widened, sensing he'd touched a nerve, and he went for the kill like the snake he was. 

"I suppose you loved prison, didn't you? All those men ready to plow you whenever you wanted it, or whenever you didn't want it- oof!"

Frank went down hard as Mickey caught him in the gut with a sucker punch. He took a couple of chairs with him as he fell. The two patrons sitting at the edge of the bar glanced over, then away again. Nothing they hadn't seen before.

"Get. The fuck. Out." 

Mickey was brimming with rage. His face was ugly and contorted. Carl had never seen him look this vengeful. He couldn't stop himself from backing up a few steps lest he be caught in the crosshairs.

Frank, too, understood the seriousness of the situation. He crab walked away before scrambling up and out the door without even trying to get the last word.

"Need a fucking cigarette." Mickey swiveled on his heel and marched for the back, slamming open the door to the alleyway.  

Carl hesitated, then picked up the box of burned out fluorescent lights and loped after him. 

Mickey was pacing between the buildings with precision, like a caged animal, when Carl creaked open the back door. Carl suspected Mickey had had a lot of practice doing this over the years.

 "You good, man?" It was a stupid question, because obviously he wasn't, but it's all Carl's brain could come up with.

"Sorry," Mickey said to him, glancing his way guiltily. "About hitting your dad." 

"The fuck do I care?" Carl asked neutrally. He tossed the old lights into the dumpster.

"It's just- the shit he was sayin'-" Mickey rubbed his lips aggressively, then sucked hard on his smoke.

"You don't gotta explain shit to me. I know how it is." Carl had seen and heard things in juvie, but he'd been protected. Judging by Mickey's reaction to Frank's taunting, that hadn't been his experience. 

Mickey took one last pull on his cigarette, then flicked it away, taking a deep breath before he turned, watching Carl as he lazily puffed on his own cigarette.

"There was this kid- Angel," Mickey started, softly, haltingly. "Going on six years into my time. He killed his boyfriend's lover or some shit. Crime of passion, got 25 years." Carl put out his cigarette and gave Mickey his full attention. This felt important.

"He was one of those real limp wristed types. Girly voice. Wimpy as fuck. He couldn't fuckin' help it. He was born that way just like I was.

"He couldn't protect himself. Had no one to get his back. Most people knew about me by then but it hadn't been a problem for a while." Mickey waved a hand dismissively in the air. "But Angel, they didn't let up on him. He was always in the infirmary and the guards couldn't stop it- not like they gave much of a shit. 

"One night this group of three guys had him in the bathroom, just taking turns whaling on him and holding him down and fucking him over and over, and he's bleeding everywhere-" Mickey didn't need to give details. He sucked in a shaky breath. "And I snapped. I had this shiv and I just blacked out and snapped."

Mickey rolled tension out of his shoulders, but they stayed up by his ears anyway.  "When they separated us, Angel told the guards the shiv was his.  One of the guys was fucked up real bad. We went in the hole for a few days and I got 90 days added to my sentence. Almost fucked my chances of parole." Mickey sniffed, took a breath, and continued hollowly. "When I got out of solitary, two of the same guys and another were waiting for me. Did to me what they did to Angel." 

Carl didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until his lungs burned. He sucked in air slowly, not wanting to spook Mickey. 

"Wasn't even worth it in the end. Angel hung himself a month later with his bedsheets." Mickey barked a pained laugh, and it hung in the air between the two men. 

After what felt like hours of silence but was probably only seconds, Mickey shook out his arms and legs as if to shake the cobwebs of his past away. He strode to the door and pulled it open.

"Got a couple more lights to change. You comin'?" 

"Yeah," Carl said after a beat, voice cracking. "Be there in a sec." Mickey nodded, then re-entered the bar, letting the door click behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Carl allowed himself five seconds to cry into his hands. Then he wiped at his eyes, shook his head, and went to help out his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Lip
> 
> I've been (slowly) working on a companion piece to this that gives snapshots of Mickey's life in prison, sort of my own headcanon that either will only be briefly touched on in this story or not at all. Obviously, as we've learned, Ian only makes one more post-canon trip to the prison, so there would be no Gallavich apart from Mickey's own thoughts. Since this fandom is practically only Gallavich fans these days, would there even be an interest in reading about Mickey's prison adventures? I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for the kudos and feedback!

Lip: early June

* * *

 “You know you don't have to tend bar at your own birthday party,” Lip informed Kev. He sat at a barstool nursing his one lonely beer as Kev diligently wiped down the bar with a dirty rag.

“Who else is gonna keep these fuckers in line?” Kev asked rhetorically. “I saw Tommy snag a whole bottle of Jack when I wasn't looking already.”

“Why do you give a shit? Ain't like you're the one doing inventory bright and early tomorrow morning.” Mickey sauntered over and took a seat next to Lip at the bar. This was the first Lip was seeing Mickey since he got out, but neither acknowledged this. Mickey barely even glanced Lip's way.

Lip and Mickey had certainly never been close. In fact, Lip had been one of Mickey's favorite punching bags for a while there in middle school. But they'd had an understanding before Mickey went to prison. They'd been on the same page about Ian and what he needed. Lip wasn't expecting a tearful hello, but he was a little surprised by Mickey's nonchalant attitude- picking up where they left off as if it had been days and not nearly a decade since they'd seen one another.

“Cuz I'm losing money! And no thanks to you, asshole,” Kev snipped moodily at Mickey. He filled a glass with beer and slid it across the bar to Mickey.

“Ay, you're the one who offered to pay me above the table, man.”

“Yeah, because our wives got together and shook their tits in my face and made me an offer I couldn't refuse!”

Mickey belched and glared suspiciously at Kev.

“You saying my wife slept with you to get me a job?”

“Nope,” Kev said quickly, throwing a wink in Lip’s direction.

“Fucking saw that, you idiot,” Mickey muttered, looking entirely unconcerned by the thought of his wife banging Kev. If only he knew what they'd been up to the past eight years.

“So what are you doing for the bar if you're not serving my drink?” Lip asked Mickey. “Wait a minute, you're not janitorial staff are you?” he needled.

“Sorry about the mess in the men's room last week, by the way,” Kermit interrupted. The group of three men turned to the fourth, who sat on Lip’s other side and had gone unnoticed until now.

“That was you?!” Kev cried. “I think I still have shit under my fingernails from that.”

Mickey, who had just taken another gulp of beer, made a comically disgusted face and spat his beer back into his glass.

“You didn't wear fucking gloves?” barked Mickey.

“Chill, Mr. Clean. It was an over exaggeration,” Kev pacified with an eye roll.

“So what _do_ you do here?” Lip prompted again. Mickey rolled his eyes, but answered this time.

“Odd jobs here and there. Upped the security a little. Kicked Frank outta the basement- you know he was crashing here? He don't look so gold these days.”

Lip shrugged.

“And he does inventory and all the bookkeeping too,” Kev added helpfully. “What?! Don't sell yourself short, man,” he coached in response to Mickey's pointed glare.

“Wait-” Lip started, rearranging himself on his stool to more fully turn to Mickey, but directing his question to Kev. “You're telling me that _this_ guy is in charge of the Alibi finances?” To Mickey he jibed, “and you have, what, a sixth grade education?”

“Fuck you too, asshole. For your information, I was always ahead in math.”

“Yeah, thanks to all your experience dealing,” Lip shot back sarcastically.

Mickey considered this, then nodded seriously.

“Yep, pretty much.”

“Jesus,” Lip groaned, running both hands through his hair.

“Yo, sorry I'm late.” The men turned as Carl entered the bar and strolled up to the bar. Lip gazed with mild interest as Carl and Mickey slapped palms like good buddies, remembering what Carl had said about hanging around Mickey lately.

“Hey, no problem, man.” Kev grinned at Carl a little too eagerly, obviously pleased to change the subject from the topic of Mickey's role in his business. “The girls started partying without us.” He gestured to Fiona, Svetlana and V, who were laughingly grinding against each other in time to the music, Svetlana sandwiched between the other two.

“That's almost hot,” Carl intoned, squinting and holding up two fingers to no doubt block Fiona from his view.

“None of them are related to _me_.” Kev waggled his eyebrows and wolf whistled loudly. The girls shrieked and pulled apart from each other, not before Svetlana purposefully felt up V’s breasts.

Mickey pulled a disgusted face, turning back to his drink.

“Dude, you are _so_ gay,” Carl told him flatly. Mickey flipped him off with one hand and raised his glass with the other, finishing the beer in one huge gulp.

“Who's calling who gay?” A new voice inquired jovially.

“Max!” Kev cried, leaning across the bar to bump fists with the newcomer. The man was young and tan. He was a similar build to Lip, only with significantly more wiry muscles, which he was obnoxiously showing off in a sleeveless shirt with the armpit holes cut down to his ribs. His blonde hair was pulled back into a short ponytail.

“Finally, the party can fucking start. This guy's an animal,” Kev said to Lip and Carl.

“You hear that, Mick? I'm an _animal_ ,” the guy snickered salaciously, invading Mickey's personal space to give him a light smack on his cheek.

“Jesus, you drunk already?” Mickey groaned, prying the guy’s hand away from his face. He glanced a little apprehensively between Carl, Lip and Kermit, who was still seated to Lip’s right.

“Mighta pregamed a little bit,” Max admitted with a laugh. “Thought it’d be more of a rager by now, knowing Kev and V. But I guess you _are_ getting up there in years.”

“Hey now,” Kev warned good naturedly.

“This is my buddy Carl," Mickey told Max, gesturing to Carl. "And that's Lip," he added offhandedly, as if he'd just remembered Lip was sitting there. The men took turns shaking hands and exchanging 'heys'.  No one bothered to introduce Kermit.

“So uh, how do you two know each other?” Lip asked, already guessing the answer but enjoying watching Mickey squirm too much.

“We met at the gym. Mickey's PO is a friend of my buddy's dad. We're sparring partners.” Max sent another playful slap Mickey's way and Mickey ducked this time, shooting his hand out to connect with Max’s shoulder.

“You should see them fight sometime,” Kev interjected, “it's like a weird type of foreplay.”

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Mickey scowled at Kev, clenching his fists in aggravation. Max chuckled and Lip smirked.

“Boxing?” Lip guessed.

“MMA,” Max corrected.

“Nice,” said Lip, a little impressed despite himself.

“You gonna dance with me tonight?” Max asked Mickey, swaying a little to the music.

“Ha!” Kev crowed, “I'd pay to see that!”

“Yeah I'm in too,” Lip agreed.

“Fat _fucking_ chance,” laughed Mickey.

“Cmon,” Max implored, stepping between Mickey's legs. “You did it last week at that club.”

“I was hammered,” Mickey insisted, pushing Max away again. “And we were… somewhere else,” he finished lamely, conscious of his audience.

“You were at a gay club. Say it," Lip jeered.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Max cut in loudly, unperturbed by the banter between Lip and his boyfriend, “I'm gonna go see if V will take me up on it.” He spread his middle and pointer finger and wagged his tongue between them crudely, backing his way toward the dance floor.

“Whatever man, I ain't worried,” Kev scoffed, looking a little worried.

“Dude’ll fuck anything with legs,” warned Mickey.

“Hey now, don't sell yourself short,” Lip deadpanned with a smirk.

“You must really want your ass beat tonight,” Mickey seethed, gripping his empty beer glass as if he were about to use it as a weapon.

Carl moved between the other two men casually, taking the beer Kev offered out to him. “Your boyfriend has a man bun,” he informed Mickey calmly.

“$100 bucks for five minutes of dancing,” Kev wheedled Mickey.

“You really want to watch me grind my dick on someone's ass, don't you? You got a hard on for me or somethin?"

“You wish, buddy! If I _were_ gay, I think Ian would be more my type. I like a pretty face," he mused.

“Ian's everybody's type,” Mickey muttered with a shrug, passing his glass to Kev for a refill.

“I think I'd go for someone taller than me. I think I'd like being the little spoon,” Kermit said speculatively. The other men men turned to stare at him for a beat.

“If anyone needs me, I'll be _not_ over here,” Carl drawled loudly, taking his beer and getting the fuck out of there.

Following Carl's lead, Lip, Mickey and Kev simultaneously parted in all directions, leaving Kermit sitting alone.

 

The party was in full swing by the time Ian sidled up to Lip, who was too sober to be making a fool out of himself like the rest of them.  Someone had cranked the music up and nearly all the tables had been pushed aside for the makeshift dance floor. 

“Hey,” Ian said loudly over the music.

“Took you long enough,” Lip chided.

Ian ran a hand through his still-damp hair and smirked.

“Well, we might have got a little distracted.”

“Good for you man. Where's Phil?”

“Getting drinks. You want another?” Ian's tone was light, but there was a challenge there.

“Pacing myself,” Lip said drily, refusing to take the bait. “Besides, someone has to chaperone. It's getting a little x-rated in there.” He motioned to his head to the packed dance floor. Kev, who had finally left his post at the bar, stood out over a head above the rest. He and V were glued together crotch to crotch and making out heavily.

“Do we know all these guys?”

“Construction across the street. They saw the party and wandered in. Fiona already found one she likes.” Lip gestured vaguely into the crowd of bodies with no real desire to point out his sister grinding against some dude. 

“Super.” Ian scanned the crowd, eyes landing on Max, who was alternating between grinding on Svetlana and Carl, the latter who was handling it considerably well as he bounced along to the beat.

“Yeah, that's uh, Mickey's boyfriend.” Lip scratched at the back of his head, watching Ian carefully out of the corner of his eyes.

“We've met,” clipped Ian. Lip opened his mouth to ask how the fuck that happened when Ian had made it pretty clear that he wasn't in any hurry to see Mickey again, when Phil came up to them, handing Ian a beer and taking a swig of his own.

“There's no one working the bar. Finally just went back there myself.”

“Yeah, all the bartenders are too busy getting it on.” Lip gestured vaguely. “How's it going man?”

“Can't complain,” said Phil, shaking Lip’s outstretched hand. “Been a busy week though. Looking forward to having the weekend with this dude for once.” He gripped Ian's shoulder and shook him playfully.

Phil was a nice enough guy, Lip thought. Friendly, easy going, could handle Carl's ribbing about being a soft suburb-dweller. He and Ian never fought, which was a feat in itself. But Lip couldn't help but think again about that craving for a little chaos, a Gallagher trait if there ever was one. Ian was overdue for it, actually, if the typical Gallagher track record was anything to go by. All the more worrying was the timing of Mickey's return.  Lip felt that he had carefully analyzed Ian's reaction to hearing Mickey was back, and found nothing of real concern. Ian hadn't seemed like he was itching to make contact again, not by a long shot. Although, Ian had somehow met Max, so something must have gone down recently. Ian had always been more secretive than the rest of the Gallaghers.

As if Lip’s thoughts about him had summoned him, Max pulled away from the dance floor and body rolled his way over to them.

“Ian Gallagher,” he singsonged. “Just the man I was looking for!”

Ian started, looking around with a _who me?_ expression on his face.

“ _You_ look like you know your way around a dance floor.” Max grinned suggestively.

Lip cast a sidelong glance at Ian and Phil beside him. Both men wore similar looks of mild interest. Lip supposed Max was a good looking guy.

“Whatever man. You couldn't handle this anyway,” Max taunted when Ian hesitated. Ian scoffed, unable to resist rising to a challenge like any good South Sider. He handed his untouched beer to Phil and raised his eyebrows in silent permission.

“Go for it,” Phil encouraged, grinning. “You know I don't dance.”

Max smirked and crooked his finger at Ian in a come hither motion. Lip groaned inwardly, remembering what Mickey had said about Max fucking anything with legs. Lip scanned the crowd for Mickey and found him across the bar sitting at a booth with two of his brothers. He was sipping a beer and hadn't yet noticed his boyfriend and ex-boyfriend begin to dance dangerously close to one another.

Lip couldn't see this ending well.

"Who's the dude Ian's dancing with?" Phil asked.

"Mickey's boyfriend," Lip supplied through thin lips.

"Oh," said Phil without recognition. "Who's Mickey?" 

Lip just blinked at him.

Well, he wasn't going _there_. Let Ian clear up this one. 

Lip settled for a vague shrug. Phil, always agreeable, shrugged back, smiling.  

"Good to see him let his hair down a little. He doesn't do that often enough," Phil said, gesturing toward Ian, who was circling around Max girating his hips.  "Even if he does dance like a stripper." 

Lip snorted. It looked like Ian and Max were pretty evenly matched in that department.

"He's been hiding it pretty well, but I think he's a little stressed out," Phil told Lip, concern puckering his forehead. Lip turned to face his brother's boyfriend more fully.

"Meds maybe?"

"You know he doesn't like it when people ask about that." Lip and Phil exchanged tight smiles in commiseration. 

"Work shit?" Lip tried again.  He snuck an eye Ian's way, then did a double take.

Ian was practically dick to dick with Max, grinding leisurely against the other man. While staring directly at Mickey.

And, God help them all, Mickey was staring back.  

But Mickey wasn't looking furious, as Lip had expected. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had one eyebrow quirked and was working his lower lip in and out of his mouth, heat in his eyes.

Lip had not needed to know what Mickey's "turned on" face looked like.  It was an expression Lip hoped never to have to see again.

Phil was saying something about HIPPA and patient confidentiality and how he thought the trip they were planning would be a great escape, but he sensed he'd lost his audience and trailed off, following Lip's gaze. 

"Aaand that's my cue," sighed Phil, chugging the rest of his beer, and then Ian's full one so quickly that Lip gaped, impressed. Phil belched behind his hand and loped out to collect his out-of-hand boyfriend. Phil's casualness told Lip that this wasn't the first time he'd had to collect Ian from a dance floor.

Lip watched Phil approach Ian and grip his arm gently, tugging him away from Max and into his own arms. Max and Ian separated willingly and Ian snaked his arms around Phil's waist. Lip chanced a glance at Mickey to gauge his reaction to this, but Mickey had turned away and was shouting over the music to his son one booth over. Yevgeny and Dominic were falling over each other, giggling and _definitely_ a little drunk. 

 Ian only managed to coerce Phil into less than a minute of dancing before they parted ways, Phil heading to the bar to no doubt down some liquid courage, and Ian sidling back up to Lip. Ian's cheeks were flushed from exertion and he was grinning.

"What the fuck, Ian," Lip chided, swatting his brother on the back of the head. 

"What?" Ian cried, laughing as he ducked away from Lip. "I was just dancing!" 

"No, you were eye-fucking Mickey Milkovich while you ground your dick against his boyfriend! It looked like the start of a bad gay porno." 

"Dunno what you're talking about," Ian hedged.  Then he snorted, "What sort of gay porn are you watching?"

"You gotta be more careful, Ian," Lip insisted. "You don't want to get the shit beat outta you because you were _just_ _dancing_." Ian scoffed. 

"Beat up by who, Mickey?"

Lip's defenses were rising, as they did whenever Ian deflected from something he didn't want to talk about. 

"Him or some homophobic prick! You aren't in your cozy North Side neighborhood," Lip shot out. 

Ian's eyes hardened.

"I've been dealing with homophobic pricks my whole life, Lip. I think I can fucking handle myself."

"I know you can," Lip assured him, backing down immediately. "But you know I'd have to back you up and I really don't want to get blood on the shirt Katie bought me."

"You still hittin' that?" Ian asked, grinning. Ian was the only one who knew about Lip's situation with his secretary.

"She sucked me off under the desk while I was on a conference call the other day," Lip confided with a smirk. Ian grinned back, opening his mouth to reply and stopping short when a commotion on the dance floor caught their attention.

Women were shrieking and the crowd was moving as one as everyone scattered, forming a large circle around a fight that had broken out. Lip's view of the fight was blocked by the sudden crowd in front of him, so he stood on a chair for a better view. Ian followed suit. 

"Oh shit." 

It was Max and one of the construction guys. They were wrestling and grappling with each other and shouting between hits, but they couldn't be heard over the still pounding music. One guy was already on the floor. It looked like he'd been knocked out cold. Max must've taken him out first.

The crowd of dancers had become  instant curious spectators.  Everyone loves a good fight. Someone had the sense to yank the speaker cord out of the wall, and Lip's ears rang with the sudden quiet, then perked back up to listen to the shouts.

He couldn't make out every word, but he definitely heard words like faggot, ass digger, and homo being thrown around. So someone didn't like Max's dancing style it seemed. Lip was glad Ian had gotten out of there when he did. He also suppressed his instinct to say "I told you so" to Ian.

Across the bar, Mickey wrenched himself to his feet, jostling the booth table out of the way, and started shoving through the crowd towards the fight. Iggy and Joey, taking their cue from their younger brother, surged forward too.

A woman's voice cut above the crowd, calling out a sharp warning in Russian. _Svetlana_.

The crowd cheered like the bloodthirsty assholes they were. Everyone may love a good fight, but they  _especially_  love a good Milkovich fight.

Lip felt Ian tense as Mickey moved into the fray and a few other guys from the construction crew rushed forward to meet the new threats.

"Don't get involved," he warned his brother.

"Wasn't planning on it," Ian answered mildly, although his jaw was clenched tight and his eyes were trained hard. 

Instead of going for the other guys, Mickey hustled to Max and pushed at his chest to back him away from his opponent. Max tried to shove past him, but Mickey held firm. They yelled at each other for a minute, voices muffled by the din of the fight, of which the other Milkovich men were making quick work. The crowd 'oohed' and Lip tore his eyes away from Mickey and Max to watch Joey hammer his fist into some guy's head before the guy fell at the feet of the spectators. Iggy and Joey stood back-to-back, fists raised and breathing heavy like two crime fighting partners in an action movie. 

Mickey was still trying to detain Max, who was doing everything short of deck Mickey himself to get to the original instigator, who was still jeering at them. Max very suddenly wrenched free of Mickey's grip and Mickey unexpectedly hissed, doubling over in pain.

"Dad!" a voice cried, and Lip turned his head in time to see Carl snag Yevgeny under the armpits before he could rush to his dad's aid.

Joey and Iggy bolted into action again, separating Max and the other guy with effort.

"Ian," Lip snapped in alarm, grabbing for Ian's arm as Ian hopped down from his chair and started for Mickey.

"He's hurt!" Ian snapped back, swatting at Lip's ironlike grip on his elbow but stopping his movement forward anyway. "It's my job."

"Not in the middle of a fistfight it isn't. It's only his shoulder," Lip told Ian, watching Mickey as he rose to his full height again, his left arm hanging limply by his side. "Pulled out of its socket." Ian frowned.

Phil appeared by Ian's side, sipping on another beer and looking utterly casual. 

"Nice night for a fight," he breezed. Lip, still on his perch atop the chair, turned back to see Kev and Carl hustling the construction crew members out the front door. In the center of the room, Max and Svetlana stood on either side of Mickey, gearing up for a screaming match while Joey and Iggy none-too-gently dragged the unconscious guy between them to the door. 

"I guess I should go make sure he comes to," Ian said resignedly, his mouth a grim line. "Go help Mickey get his shoulder back in," he ordered Lip on his way by. Phil just shrugged and followed Ian.

Lip had zero intention of doing that. Instead he pushed his way through the people getting back to partying and headed for the bar. His family was gathered there with Kev and V, both of whom were back behind the bar for the moment, mixing drinks.

"Where's Svet? We could use her help here," V barked at Lip as he approached. She looked stone sober and pissed off.

"Dealin' with a domestic last I saw," Lip clipped. 

"Someone turn the music back on," Fiona slurred. "I'm too drunk to stand around."

"I'll go plug the speakers back in," Carl offered, striding away.

"Fucking Max killed my buzz," V complained, leaning against the bar. "He _had_ to start a fucking fight."

"Started as a fag bash," Ian said coolly, approaching the bar with Phil trailing behind him. "You expect him not to defend himself?"  

V looked abashed. 

The music turned on and Fiona whooped, jumping out of her stool. 

"Well I'm gettin' back to it," she cried, swaying her way to the dance floor. Lip shook his head at her. He should've brought the wheelbarrow.

"You do your thing?" Lip asked Ian after Fiona danced away.

"He was walking and talking. Well, stumbling and talking anyway. Mickey good?" Lip looked to the ceiling in neutrality, and Ian groaned. "Guess I'll go find out." 

"What I wanna know is why Mickey was so keen on stopping the fight," V speculated. 

"Mick and Svet have an agreement," Carl, rejoining the group, supplied. "Mickey's gotta stay out of trouble or he's toast."

"Mickey's full of fucking surprises," Lip mused aloud. 

"I gotta meet this Mickey dude," Phil said. "He's all anyone can talk about." 

Lip settled for what seemed to now be his go-to move when it came to Phil tonight. He shrugged.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Ian


	7. Chapter 7

Ian: early June

* * *

 Ian finds Mickey sitting on the curb and hissing as he rolls his left shoulder experimentally. He's got a lit cigarette in his right hand. The air is cooling now that the sun's setting, and Mickey is visibly shivering in his sleeveless shirt.

“Got it back in?” Ian asks as he plops down a few feet away from Mickey.

“Yeah, Max did it before he fucked off,” Mickey answers, blowing smoke out his nose and glancing at Ian through his eyelashes.

"Mind if I take a look?" Ian reaches out a hand but Mickey jerks away before they can make contact.

"It's fine, Gallagher. Old injury. Pops out all the time."  He moves his shoulder around again. "Fuckin' Max caught me just right." 

“Your boyfriend is fucking nuts,” Ian says seriously, shaking his head.

“Can't help that I got a type,” Mickey shoots back, making eye contact for the first time and favoring Ian with that old challenging smirk. Ian rears back a little, startled by the reference to his condition. Especially over recent years, everyone has been so careful with their words around him. It was a little refreshing actually, to be the subject of someone's ribbing again, even if it came from Mickey.

“Hey, fuck you,” Ian says good naturedly in response, and Mickey grins at the ground, chuckling softly.

“Nah, Max was cool,” Mickey says on the exhale of his next drag. He kicks at pebbles at his feet. “Too bad I'll have to get another sparring partner.”

“Why?” Ian asks, curious. From what little he'd seen of them together they seemed well suited, and certainly had enough chemistry.

“He's a fucking wild card, man. Can't have that shit around the kid. Bad influence.” Ian, more than a little surprised by Mickey's answer, has nothing to say to that, so he simply settles for a noncommittal “Huh.”

As if he's suddenly realized he forgot to share, Mickey shoves his half smoked cigarette under Ian’s nose, looking simultaneously sheepish and expectant with one eyebrow quirked up toward his hairline.

“No thanks. Don't smoke anymore.”

Mickey's other eyebrow joins its partner high on his brow.

“Not at all?”

Ian shakes his head and shrugs. It'd been easier to quit for good than he'd thought. He'd never really been a natural smoker, but smoking was like breathing to everyone else in the South Side, so he'd done it until he'd moved farther north and the urge practically disappeared on its own. Lip, still a chain smoker, frequently laments about how easy it was for Ian to quit.

“Not even after sex?”

“Nope.”

Mickey's grin and accompanying laugh are salacious.

“You must not be having good enough sex then.”

He's only teasing, Ian knows, but the comment pools funnily in Ian's belly anyway. He remembers the look Mickey gave him only a half an hour ago while Ian danced with Max and the butterflies pool lower still.

He doesn't have much time to dwell on it, though, because the front door creaks open behind them and the sound of the party, back to its roaring glory, leaks out until the door closes again. The two men on the curb turn to the noise.

It's Phil. He's looking between them curiosly and smiling.

“Brought you your sweatshirt,” Phil says to Ian as Ian rises to meet him. Beside him, Mickey comes to his feet as well. “Hey,” says Phil, extending his hand out to Mickey. “I'm Phil.”

Mickey transfers his cigarette to his other hand and shakes willingly. Ten years ago Ian would have fallen over at the sight.

“Mickey,” says Mickey. To Ian he says, “you fucking a dude with the same name as your brother?”

Both Ian and Phil pause, piecing this together. Lip had always been “Lip” to Ian.

“Dude, I've never even thought of that!” Phil guffaws, socking Ian lightly on the shoulder. Mickey looks a little shocked that his sarcasm has landed so well with Phil.

“So how do you two know each other?” Phil asks congenially.

Mickey shoots Ian a quick look of confusion, clearly having expected Phil to have heard something about him in the past.

Ian gives Mickey an apologetic half shrug and says, “Mickey's from the old neighborhood. He just got out of jail.”

“Prison,” Mickey corrects, sucking on his teeth and flicking his spent cigarette directly at Ian's sneakers.

“Ah,” says Phil, smile frozen for just a second as he looks Mickey up and down.  His gaze lingers on the “fuck” hand Mickey's rubbing over his lips a split second longer than the rest of him. Then the genuine grin returns, and he says “Two gay kids the same age from the Southside- there's gotta be some history there!”

Ian glances at Mickey, feeling apprehensive. Mickey just raises one dark brow and turns to Ian expectantly.

“We ah-” Ian laughs, a little nervously, "Yeah, we might've fucked around a bit in high school.” He isn't totally sure why he downplays the relationship so much, directly in front of the one person who knows just exactly how serious it had been, but that would be like opening a can of worms. This is, after all, Phil's first time hearing about Mickey.

Mickey laughs too, but it is too sharp.

“Wised up quick when he realized slumming it wasn't his thing,” he says flippantly. Face blank, he adds,” You still into that kinky shit, Gallagher? Still got that toe fetish?” He turns to Phil.  "He still like it when you call him ‘daddy’?”

“Uh,” says Phil, staring agape at Mickey.

”He's kidding,” Ian assures quickly, placing a hand on Phil’s arm. Mickey shrugs lazily, neither confirming nor denying.

“See ya around,” he says to both of them, turning and striding back into the Alibi without another word. 

Ian sighs. His and Mickey's conversation had been going so much better than their initial reunion. He thought he'd have a chance to redeem himself a bit.  Then Phil had to show up.

"What-" Phil stops, chuckling, then starts again. "He's not what I expected." Ian's pretty sure Max had said the same thing about him when they met for the first time.

"Mickey never is," Ian breathes, glancing sheepishly at his boyfriend. "Sorry I didn't tell you about him."

Phil shrugs.

"What's there to tell? I haven't told you about all my high school hookups either. Most of them were chicks but..." He trails off, laughing. "He _was_ kidding about the toe fetish, right?"

"Why? Is that a problem?" Ian teases. 

"I'm into whatever you're into," Phil lopes his arms around Ian's waist and pulls him close, " _daddy_."

"Jesus," Ian groans laughingly, extracting himself from Phil in protest.

A stranger jostles Ian as they walk by on the sidewalk, huffing "fags" under his breath.  

He remembers why he doesn't come to the Southside often. He wonders how Mickey can stand it.

Phil just shakes his head and leads them back into the bar. The crowd has thinned a bit and it's overall a lot more subdued.

Lip and Carl are still at the bar where Ian left them. Liam (had he been here the whole time?) is in a booth in the back with some other neighborhood kids.  All of them are scrolling through their phones. Fiona is still tearing it up on the dance floor, her moves a little sloppy. In the back corner, Mickey is heaving Yevgeny into his arms, suppressing a grin as Svetlana hovers, clearly pissed off and letting him know it.

"We're gonna head out," Ian tells Carl and Lip. He taps on his watch face. "Gotta get to bed." 

"You okay to drive?" Lip asks Phil. 

"Took the El." 

"Aw, you leaving already?" Kev whines. "We just got started!"

"Gotta get my beauty rest," Ian tells him, smile tight. He hates it when people try to wheedle him out of his routine. 

"Well you at least comin' for the fight next week?" Kev asks. "We're all pitching in to watch it on the big screen." 

"Uh," hedges Ian. He sometimes thinks the gayest thing about him is that he doesn't really get into sports.

"I'll be here," Phil interrupts. "Ian can stay home." Everyone laughs.  Phil, in contrast to Ian, will watch anything remotely competitive, even fucking NASCAR.

They say their final goodbyes and walk to the El station.  

"So what was Mickey in for?" Phil asks out of nowhere when they're on the train jostling their way north. 

Ian leans his head back on the glass behind his seat. 

"Attempted murder," he says finally. Phil whistles lowly. 

"Fuck. Who'd he try to kill?" 

Ian considers his answer. _In for a penny, in for a pound._

"Just some bitch _."_ He shrugs _._ Phil looksalittle disgusted by Ian's nonchalance _. "_ Obviously she survived _,"_ Ian adds a little defensively when he interprets Phil's expression.

"Did she at least deserve it?" Phil asks with morbid curiosity. Ian thinks that's sort of a strange question. 

Did she deserve it? She'd annoyingly been Frank's number one fan. She'd ratted Carl out to the cops, sending him to juvie. She'd called up the Military Police and told them Ian's whereabouts. She'd been a straight up pain in everyone's ass and a total crazy bitch. But did she _deserve_ it?

It wasn't exactly attempted murder, anyway. Debbie had confessed her involvement to Ian years ago. It was both _more_ and _less_ comforting to know that they'd only intended to torture Sammi a little and then gotten in over their heads when she'd been temporarily paralyzed by the combination of drugs in her system.

 _"_ What ever happened to her?" Phil presses.

"Dunno. She was locked up too last I knew." Although if Mickey was out now she probably was too.

" _Why_!?" 

"She tried to kill him for trying to kill her," Ian explains, patience for this conversation waning. Phil shakes his head in disbelief.

"That's fucked up." 

"That's Southside." Ian closes his eyes and Phil grips his hand, intertwining their fingers as he turns his body into Ian's.

"Glad you got out of there," he murmurs into Ian's neck. 

Ian stiffens. He may have thought that exact thing dozens of times before, but for someone else to voice it feels like an insult. Like, Ian's allowed to call Lip an asshole but if anyone else says it they're getting their face punched in.

"I'm sorry," Phil says immediately, sensing Ian's hackles rise. "Wasn't trying to offend you. I just want you to be safe." 

"I can handle myself," Ian insists, voice rising a little. He hates looking weak. He isn't weak.

Phil frowns and gentles his tone. Ian usually loves that about Phil, that he stays calm and won't rise to Ian's emotional level. But sometimes it just feels good to have a screaming match. 

"I know that, Ian. I'm just looking out for you. It's kinda my job."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ian grinds out. Phil sighs, reaching for Ian's arm and gripping tight.

"I mean its our jobs to take care of one another. You and me together."

Phil's words jolt Ian back eight and a half years.

_It means we take care of each other._

Ian shakes his head to clear those cobwebs away. 

"Love ya," Phil whispers in Ian's ear when Ian relaxes against his boyfriend.

"You too," Ian says back, meaning it. 

Phil is amazing. He's handsome and friendly and successful and relaxed. 

Ian's gotta live in the present.

\--

Ian keeps busy the rest of the week with work. He loves his job. A calm comes over him when he moves into life saving mode. He doesn't think about anything else.

Soon though, he and Phil are again heading to the Alibi. Phil's looking forward to the fight. Aside from loving sports, Phil's also a natural small talker. He gets along well with the lifers at the bar, even though he's only met them a handful of times.

Phil shakes hands with Tommy and flops down on a bar stool immediately. Ian hovers by his shoulder for a minute, scanning the crowd for Carl or Kev. He finds both of them arguing with a growing crowd of people by the big screen TV against the wall. 

"Dumbasses can't get the satellite to work," Tommy supplies, shaking his head. "Knew I shoulda gone to Tony's down the block."

"Then go. It is not like we will miss your tips," Svetlana sneers, coming up to them from behind the bar. She turns hard eyes on Ian and says, "what do you want?"

"I'm here to watch the fight," he says, startled. Svetlana has been acting strangely toward him since around January. Colder, less willing to chat about anything except Yevgeny.

Ever since Mickey got out.

"What do you want to _drink?"_ she clarifies with an eye roll. 

 _"_ Beer for me," Phil says cheerily, slapping  a five down onto the bar for a tip and winking at Svet. "You can open a tab." Svetlana smiles sickeningly sweet at Phil and tucks the bill into her cleavage. "And you?" she prompts Ian again, barely concealing her scowl. 

 _"_ Brought my own," Ian tells her, digging in his pants pocket to show her his can. Tommy snatches it out of his hand.

 _"Sparkling water?_ Could you _be_ any more of a fag?" 

"Ay, if I hear you say the word fag one more time I'mma smash your face in," Mickey, coming up behind Svetlana behind the bar, barks at Tommy. He has a plastic crate of glassware in his arms and he slams it under the counter menacingly. 

Tommy, never one to scare easily, only snorts, "You call people fags more than anyone I know!" 

"Because I'm fucking allowed. It's like the N word." Mickey gives Tommy a self-satisfied smirk.

"Whatever, fag," Tommy chortles.

Mickey reaches for the first weapon in his reach (the whiskey bottle Svetlana had left on the bar) and lunges.

"No," Svetlana snaps sharply, snatching the bottle from his hands and shoving at him ineffectively. "Go to Yevgeny," she tells him, motioning toward their son who is skulking around the tables with Dominic. They're definitely up to something. "Misha," she warns again when Mickey keeps his fiery gaze on Tommy. 

Mickey relents, moving past Svetlana and the others at the bar, Ian included, without a glance.

"Hey," Ian hears him say to Yevgeny. "I told you, no hard stuff til you're thirteen!"  

"Got your pit bull on a short leash these days," Tommy snarks to Svetlana. 

Emotionlessly, Svetlana sprays him with the tonic water spout. 

\--

Watching the fight is actually alright. He and Phil and Carl and Mickey and Kev sit together in the curved corner booth and it isn't even that awkward. Carl and Mickey have obviously hung out together since Mickey got out. They seem to have an easy, playful rapport.  In contrast, Kev and Mickey bitch at each other like an old married couple. Phil thinks they're hilarious.

Ian, sitting on one end of the booth across from Kev, somehow ends up being the beer fetcher for the table. When he comes back with the third round and includes one for himself this time, he watches Mickey watch him take a drink curiously. 

Mickey's gaze flickers from Ian's throat to his face and they make eye contact for a moment. Mickey raises one dark eyebrow sardonically, then turns away. 

After another half hour of one beer on an empty stomach, Ian turns to Phil.

"I'm gonna go down the block and get a burger," he tells him.

"Why?" Phil laughs. He's feeling a buzz from the shot he did with Carl on top of his beers. Ian gives him _the look_ butPhil can't seem to interpret it in his state. 

Ian shakes his empty beer bottle in his face.

"Right," says Phil too loudly. "Gotta soak that up before you take your meds." He pushes the bowl of beer nuts toward Ian as if they might do the trick. "Don't go! We're having fun!"

Ian curls his lip up at the beer nuts everyone's had their hands in all night, but he considers it. He doesn't really want to leave. 

"You can come upstairs and get some leftovers, Gallagher," Mickey says suddenly from across the table. Startled, Ian looks across at Mickey. Mickey's looking right at him, expression serious, lips tight. Ian hadn't even been aware Mickey was listening. "You can bring it down here." 

"There's an idea," Phil crows. 

 Ian hesitates. Mickey raises both eyebrows in a challenge.

"Yeah. Okay." He hopes Mickey can't read the note of panic in his eyes as he slides out of the booth. Mickey shoves Kev out of the boath so he can slide out and stands too.

"Bring me back somethin'," Carl orders Mickey, to which Mickey responds with a middle finger. 

Ian follows Mickey silently up the creaky steps and into the apartment at the top of the stairs. He hasn't been up here since he'd visited Mickey at the rub and tug once all those years ago.

It's completely different now. They enter the threshold and directly in front of them is a tiny bedroom with the door wide open. The walls are covered with soccer posters and the bed is unmade. Yevgeny's room.

The apartment opens into one big space after that. It's open and colorful. The late afternoon light casts rainbow shadows on the deep purple walls in the "living room" area on the left. On the right wall, which is painted an algae green, privacy screens block a large bed partially from view. At the back is the kitchen. The far wall is painted a pumpkin orange.

It is tidy and cozy and smells like lemons. 

"Wow," Ian breathes before he can stop himself. 

"Yeah. Svet did good, huh?" Mickey moves into the kitchen and motions for Ian to sit at the table.

"Everything's so clean," Ian remarks with wonder, sitting down.

"Why you so fuckin' surprised about that?" 

Ian mirrors Mickey's raised eyebrow expression.

"Well. You aren't exactly a neat freak." When they'd lived at the Milkovich homestead together Ian had regularly tripped over piles of junk on the floor as he moved from room to room. 

"Yeah well, things fuckin' change when you have only one change of clothes as your worldly possessions for eight years." Mickey opens the fridge and rummages around. "You want this Russian stew shit? It's pretty good cold. Better when you reheat it."

Mickey doesn't look to Ian for a response. He just clangs around, finally setting a soup pot on the stove and dumping the stew into it. "No microwave," he explains to Ian. He goes back to the fridge and takes out a huge ziploc bag of fresh orange slices, tossing them onto the table. On the front in permanent marker it clearly says YEVGENY SOCCER PRACTICE- DO NOT EAT!

"One of the things I missed most-" he says, throwing himself in a chair and going for and handful of the oranges, "-fresh fuckin' fruit." He sucks the juice off his fingers, then stands to stir the stew.

"You're happy to be out, then?"

Mickey swivels to stare at him.

"That might be the stupidest fucking question anyone's ever asked me." 

Ian flushes.

"No. I mean. Everything's going good for you?"

Mickey smirks, but nods in the affirmative.

"Got lucky. My PO's decent. I don't want to blow my brains out every time I go to work.  I got Svet and the kid." He sticks a spoon in the stew and feeds himself a spoonful to test the temperature. "And gay dudes are fuckin' everywhere," he says in wonderment through a mouthful of food. "I had no fuckin' idea."

Ian has to laugh at that.

"Hey," he says suddenly. He's been feeling guilty about the way their last conversation ended and he needs to get it off his chest. "Sorry I didn't tell Phil about us." 

Mickey says nothing and busies himself finding a bowl.

"And I appreciated that you didn't rat me out," Ian continues meaningfully, hoping it'll stay that way. 

"Your dirty little secret is safe with me," Mickey clips. He dumps some stew in the bowl and sticks a clean spoon in it.

"It's not like that," insists Ian. "I just never brought it up before and it'd be a little suspicious if I told him now."

"You never talked about your exes?" Mickey raises a skeptical eyebrow. Ian shrugs.

"I don't like to dwell on the past." It's true. Ian keeps all of his past wrongs locked up tight. It's probably not healthy, but whatever. It's gotten him this far.

Mickey seems to accept this response. He slides the stew to Ian and sits back down across from him.

"Helps that you don't got me inked on your skin," Mickey chuckles. He taps the spot over his heart where Ian's name rests.

"How come you never covered it up?" Ian asks curiously through a mouthful of stew. Mickey's right, this is pretty good.

"Couldn't. The guy who did my other shit took a look at it. Said I'd be risking another infection if I did another stick and poke over top. Besides, he's a believer in symbolism or some shit." He smirks, but his eyes are soft and far away for a moment.

"So what does he say it symbolizes?"

"Me coming out, finding my first love, moving on, all that fairy bullshit." He waves a dismissive hand in the air, like what he's said isn't moving as fuck. Ian coughs.

"What does TRK symbolize?" Ian asks. He's wondered about that tattoo that Mickey carries in the shallow of his hip from the moment he saw it.

Abruptly, Mickey rises and heads to the fridge. "Want another beer?" he asks, voice muffled by the open fridge door. 

Ian blinks. 

"No thanks," he answers a little belatedly. " Still a lightweight." Mickey closes the door and gazes into space for a minute. Probably thinking about the last time they drank together.

Ian wonders when their conversations in the present day will stop pulling them into the past.

"So you aren't totally bummed about having to ditch Max?" Ian changes the subject.

Mickey shrugs.

"Wasn't a love connection or nothin'. We were just having fun."

"Good," says Ian. "I sorta felt a little responsible."

"Why?"

"I dunno, like maybe him dancing with me was the reason the fight started." 

Mickey laughs. 

"He woulda found someone else to grind up on. Guys like you and him can't help yourselves." 

"Uh, what?" Ian is confused, but he doesn't think he likes what Mickey's implying.

"Cmon," Mickey says a little patronizingly. "You did everything but fuck him right in front of your own boyfriend." Ian's mouth drops open in shock.

"We were dancing! Besides, _you_ didn't look like you were complaining."

"Because I know what to expect from guys like you. From the looks of it, Phil doesn't know what's up yet." 

"I have _never_ cheated on Phil," Ian spits. 

For a moment Mickey almost looks hurt by Ian's admission, but he quickly masks it with a sneer.

The vitriol leaves Ian instantly and his heart sinks like a stone into his belly.  

"Mick," Ian says quietly. Mickey flinches so subtly that Ian almost doesn't catch it.    "I was manic. It had nothing to do with you." 

This is evidently the wrong thing to say, because Mickey snorts derisively.

"Exactly. You didn't think of me at all." 

Ian's memories of wanting it all the time and taking it when he could get it are blessedly foggy, but yeah, that's pretty much what happened.

"It just overrode my thoughts. I wasn't thinking straight. If I had been I wouldn't have done it. Which is why it hasn't happened since," Ian says firmly.

"Yeah well-" Mickey thumbs at his nose. "-fucked around on you once too. Twice," he amends quickly.

Ian wonders if he looks as gobsmacked as he feels.

"When?"

Mickey's eyes focus on Ian's shoulders, flicking sheepishly to his face before they skitter away again.

"When you fucked off with your mom. I was fucking pissed. And horny- cuz I was used to getting it like three times a day." 

Ian laughs a little despite himself. 

"Hoped for a while there that maybe I was only gay for you, since you were the only one who'd ever-" he makes a crude gesture for fucking with his hands. Ian's mouth drops open, but Mickey continues, "Anyway, I tried this chick first but it didn't do shit so I went and got a blow job from some twink in the park." 

Even though Mickey's just told him about the time he cheated on him, Ian can't get what he'd said about being his first and only out of his head. 

"But- you fucked guys in juvie," Ian stutters. Mickey curls his lip in annoyance.

"One guy. And  _I_ fucked _him_. It's not gay in there, it's just how it is. Besides, you and me hooked up way before that." They'd switched roles more often in the beginning until Mickey quickly dropped all pretenses and embraced being a bottom.

A grin slowly forms on Mickey's face as he watches Ian open and close his mouth like a fish. "You didn't know you took my gay virginity?" 

"How would I?" Ian sputters. "You always seemed so- experienced."

"Who d'you think I woulda got to fuck me?" Mickey challenges Ian.

"Dunno. Guess I didn't want to think about it." 

They remain where they are for a minute, Mickey standing by the fridge holding an untouched beer and Ian sitting at the table in front of now-cold stew.

"I'm sorry," Ian says after a beat of silence. "It's almost nine years too late. But I'm sorry." Mickey shrugs one shoulder.

"Forgave you a long time ago," Mickey tells him, turning away and starting for the exit. "Rinse that bowl when you're done, yeah?" 

Ian waits until he can't hear Mickey's footsteps on the stairs any longer. Then he gets up from his spot at the table and wanders curiosly around the apartment. 

There's a huge assortment of photos framed along the wall that separates the living room from the bathroom. Most of them feature Yevgeny and Svetlana. There's a few of the Balls and even one of Mickey and Ian holding baby Yevgeny between them. Ian's smiling at the camera and Mickey is smirking at Ian. 

Front and center is a blown up wedding portrait. Ian has to laugh a little at the pained smile on Mickey's face.

Ian jolts when he hears quick footsteps on the stairs. He nearly runs to the table to snatch his bowl and is casually rinsing it out in the sink when the apartment door opens.

"Hey Ian," Yevgeny says casually, like it's not weird that Ian's all alone in his house. Yevgeny heads directly into his room and returns a moment later with a ball bag. 

"Hey Yev."

"I'm gonna go to the park with my friends and practice," Yev tells him. "Mom told me to come eat before I went."

"Okay. Your dad's got some stew on the stove still. Let me heat it up again." 

Yevgeny tosses his bag by the door and comes to sit in the chair his father had recently vacated.

"Are those my oranges for practice?" he asks in surprise.

"Uh, sorry." Ian doesn't bother blaming Mickey. Yevgeny just shrugs and grabs a few for himself.

He really is the spitting image of his dad. 

"So is it good to have your dad home?" 

"Yeah," grins Yevgeny. "He's cool. Lets me get away with shit mom doesn't." Ian chuckles. "And he's gonna take me to shoot his gun when his PO gets off his back." 

"Cool," says Ian neutrally. Yev's probably got a long wait ahead of him. "Your mom and dad getting along okay?" Ian puts a bowl of soup in front of Yev.

"They fight a lot but they love each other. Not like, _love_ love. I know my dad's gay."

 _And your mom isn't totally straight either_ , Ian thinks.  

"You and dad aren't getting back together are you?" Yev asks curiously while making short work of his dinner.

"No. We're just friends." They aren't even that, but maybe they can be, someday.

Yev nods. Slurps the broth. 

"That's what dad said too." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and dumps the bowl in the sink.

"Bye Ian," he calls as he picks up his bag and leaves. 

Quick exits. Another thing Yev has in common with his father.

After he finishes cleaning Yevgeny's bowl too, Ian heads back down, where the fight is nearly over and Phil has crossed the line between buzzed and drunk.

"Hey!" he shouts when Ian appears at his elbow. He's still in the same booth and there's a couple more empty shot glasses in front of him. "Almost called a fucking search party!" He grabs Ian by the shoulders and pulls him down for a long, wet smacking kiss and cackles when Ian swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. 

"Get a room!" Carl slurs, and Phil laughs. Ian chances a glance at Mickey but his eyes are firmly fixed on the TV. 

"I'm cutting you off," Ian tells Phil, pushing him further into the booth so he can sit. 

"Yes sir." Phil salutes him and then fucking giggles. "Gotta stick to the schedule. TV at 8, fuck at 9, bed by 10." He holds up a finger. " _Unless_ it's overnights week." 

"You complaining?" Ian snaps, embarrassed. 

"No sir." Phil widens his eyes in mock fear.

"Asshole." Carl shoves Phil from the other side, jostling him into Ian. Ian's cheeks burn. His little brother is defending his honor right now.

"Yeah, keep it up and there won't be no fucking at 9," Mickey snarks.

Immediately Phil looks penitent.

"Sorry," Phil says to Ian. "I was making a stupid joke." 

"It's okay," Ian says quickly, eager to get this incident out of everyone's minds. 

The rest of the night goes fine. Phil does end up drinking more, and Phil and Carl drunkenly hold each other up as they weave their way slowly to the Gallagher house at around midnight. 

Ian helps Phil flop down on the bed that was once Liam's (he's taken over Debbie's old room) and Ian curls up in his own childhood bed.

Phil starts snoring almost immediately. And even though Ian is several hours off schedule (he'll pay for it for the next few days) he can't sleep.

When he does finally fall asleep, he dreams he's sitting on his couch in the apartment he shares with Phil. Phil's sitting next to him, watching a blurry show on the TV. Ian feels content.  But something isn't right. Ian sits there, trying to figure out what it is. Then he discovers it. 

Instead of their usual eggshell white, the walls are painted colorfully in purple and green and orange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Carl
> 
> I literally named Ian's boyfriend Phil just so I could have Mickey make that dumb crack about him having the same name as Lip.
> 
> It's sort of ironic that two people discussed Max and TRK in the feedback from the last chapter and both were (briefly) hit on in this chapter. I love hearing your insights!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you who are keeping on with this story and for your beautiful comments. 
> 
> I love writing Carl. He just is who he is and doesn't bullshit. He has deep thoughts, but he doesn't do as much inner monologuing as the others. Carl might be around for a little comic relief, but he also serves a much greater purpose as someone Mickey feels he can talk to about his prison experiences. Without Carl we wouldn't have learned much of anything about Mickey's last eight years for a long time.

Carl: mid June 

* * *

"What about this one?" Carl called to Mickey from across the used car lot. He pointed out a boxy grey Oldsmobile when Mickey looked up. The tires actually had some decent tread left but the paint was chipping pretty bad.

Mickey sauntered over to take a look. 

"What part of "'I only have $900 to spend' don't you understand?" Mickey snarked at Carl when he saw the $1200 price tag.

"Maybe we could talk him down," Carl suggested, shrugging. 

"I know my strengths, and I'm telling you- I don't got negotiation skills. I'll end up punching him in his fat face."

"Isn't that why you brought me along?"  

"I _brought_ you because you were following me around like a lost puppy and I had shit to get done," Mickey told him, giving Carl an affectionate shove.

"What does Svetlana want a car for anyway?" Carl wondered as they moved further through the lot. 

"She thinks the other moms on the traveling team are judging us because the kid takes the bus to get to practice. As if getting a fucking beater like this will impress anyone." He kicked at a very old, very rusted Grand Prix as he said it. "Would have been easier if she'd just let me swipe one like old times," Mickey grumbled.

Carl snorted. Mickey talked a big game, but there was no way he'd do anything that might fuck up his parole.

"Yev's really lucky," said Carl jealously. "Svet'll do anything for him." Carl's mom wouldn't have even bothered to sign a permission slip for a traveling sports team, much less pack snacks and go to every game and sacrifice tons of money on frivolous shit like a car to benefit her son. 

"Too fuckin' right.  I tell him that all the time. Better than my crack whore mom ever would have done." 

"Or my crazy psycho mom. Who's also sometimes a crack whore." 

They lapsed into silence, heading in the direction of the used motorcycles. They were blessedly unbothered by salesmen. Mickey had scared them all off immediately. 

"Hey man, look at this," Mickey said with almost practiced surprise. He pointed to a shiny silver and black bike with one big dent on the fuel tank and a scratch in the upholstered seat. "Wonder how much they want for it."  It wasn't anything special, but Mickey was definitely interested and trying to look blasé about it.

Carl grabbed for the tag and his lips twitched.

"Exactly 900 bucks," Carl intoned. "Huh."

"Small world," said Mickey breezily.

"Too bad you don't have a motorcycle license," said Carl, watching Mickey carefully.

"Got it when I renewed my driver's license actually," Mickey corrected nonchalantly, grabbing his wallet out of his back pocket and briefly showing Carl the license, where a tiny picture of Mickey scowled up at them. 

"Huh," Carl said again, grinning. Mickey gnawed on his lip, gazing at the bike. 

"You shithead," Carl laughed, unable to resist any longer. "You fucking planned this! You've already checked this place out!"

"I thought if you were here to witness that you can't even get the shittiest of cars for 900 bucks then Svet wouldn't get so pissed!" Mickey actually looked a little flustered. 

"You idiot, I would've covered for you anyway." Carl punched Mickey in the shoulder. "I'm a real good liar. Everyone says so."

"Which is exactly why you can't be trusted! Svetlana can see right fuckin' through bullshit, ya know." Mickey rubbed his left shoulder where Carl punched him, and Carl felt a little bad when he remembered what happened to Mickey the night of Kev's birthday party.

"Next time just bring Liam," Carl joked.  "He won't be able to say anything. Perfect cover." 

Mickey pulled a face.

"Yeah, the fuck is up with that?"

"Ian says he has an anxiety disorder," Carl sighed. Mickey frowned, pondering.

"You sure like, all the shit in his mouth works the right way? Like his tongue and teeth and shit?"

Carl rolled his eyes.

"Yeah I'm sure, dumbass. He's talked before." 

Mickey just shrugged.

"I'm just saying, there was this guy in prison. He was scrawny as shit but he was the creepiest little fucker around.  Never said a word. He could sneak around without anyone seeing or hearing him. Like from a fuckin' horror movie. 

"One day I was minding my own fuckin' business in the tv room and Polly-that's what we called him- just fuckin' appeared next to me.  He just sat there and stared at me and opened his mouth and there was nothing in there. No teeth. Just a little stub for a tongue. Scariest moment of my entire fucking life." 

"You're making that up," Carl accused, honestly a little spooked. 

"Hand to God, man."

Carl shuddered.

"Well Liam has a tongue," he said with finality.

Mickey just raised his eyebrows and said, "Let's hurry up and buy this thing. We got one more stop to make." 

"Svetlana's just gonna make you take it back," Carl warned.

"Exactly. Gotta enjoy it while I can." Mickey headed for the showroom and Carl loped behind.

"What if she lets you keep it and all three of you need to go somewhere?" 

"Easy. The kid can wear his rollerblades and we tie a rope around his waist and mine."

Carl considered this.

"That's actually not a bad idea."

 

(Carl did end up talking the guy down to 750 cash) 

Now they were cruising down the streets on their way to their next errand, which Mickey was being suspiciously cryptic about.

"People are staring at two dudes on a bike," Carl yelled in Mickey's ear. He wasn't particularly put out by it, but it was sort of weird to watch people do double takes when they looked your way.

"They're jealous of this sweet ass ride," Mickey shouted back over the roar of the engine, which from the sound of it, desperately needed a tune up.

Well, you get what you pay for.  

They rode for another several blocks until Mickey turned pretty expertly into the parking lot of a strip mall. Idly, Carl wondered when Mickey'd gotten so good at riding. His brother Iggy had a bike. Maybe he'd practiced with that.

Mickey parked the bike in front of a store and the men climbed off. Carl's body was still sort of phantom vibrating from being on the bike so long.

"It's a bookstore," Carl uttered in surprise after a beat, gazing up at the name of the store Mickey intended to enter. 

"So?" Mickey snapped, looking a little embarrassed. Carl shrugged.

"Don't think I've ever been in a bookstore before," he told Mickey.

"Me neither."

They entered the nearly empty store as a bell dinged softly above them.

"You know what you're here for?" Carl whispered.  He wasn't sure if bookstores were like libraries where you weren't supposed to talk. 

"Just- go look at the comic books or something." Mickey shooed Carl away and squared his shoulders, strutting up to a bored looking cashier. Carl ducked into an isle and pretended to look at some cookbooks while he watched.

"Hey man, I'm uh, looking for a book." 

The cashier raised sarcastic eyes up to Mickey, no doubt to make some crack about how everyone in a bookstore was looking for a book. But he took a look at Mickey, who was rubbing his lip with his "fuck" hand with unintentional nervousness, and changed courses.

"Uh, sure. Do you know what it's called?"

"Hatchet," said Mickey clearly. "By Gary Paulsen. You heard of it?" 

"Have I _heard_ of it?" the guy scoffed. Evidently he couldn't keep his assholeness hidden for longer than a few seconds. "It won the Newberry Medal in 1987. It's a young adult classic." 

"You got the book or not?" Carl growled as he approached the others, unable to keep himself from stepping in. Mickey shot him an annoyed look but crossed his arms and stared down the cashier. 

"Yeah, uh, right this way." The guy kept his head down and led them to the back of the store to the young adult section. "Here it is." He picked up a copy and handed it to Mickey. Mickey turned it over in his hands and just looked at it.

"Looks different than the one I read," he sniffed.

"Yeah, cover art changes with the times. You probably had the one with the kid's face on the cover, huh?" 

"Yeah, and I want _that_ version." Mickey handed the unacceptable book back to the guy a little more forcefully than necessary.

"No can do. It's not in production anymore. We only sell the current versions."

Mickey blew out air and bit at the corner of his thumbnail, radiating anxiety.  Jesus, Mickey must really fucking want this book.

"Sorry guy, you'll have to get it on eBay or something." The cashier's eyes flicked to Mickey's prison tattoo depicting his eight years of time spent. "Or you could steal it from the public library," he suggested a little acerbically.

The dude had no survival instinct _at all_.

Instead of threatening to beat this douchebag to a bloody pulp, Mickey just blinked, the cogs of his brain working hard.

"Thanks," he muttered after a beat, high tailing it out of there. 

The cashier turned to Carl.

"Sentimental, isn't he?" He smirked.

Carl knocked the dude hard into the bookshelf with his shoulder on his way by.

Mickey was already on the bike when Carl exited the shop. 

"Where we going?" Carl asked, hopping on behind Mickey.

"The fucking library, where do you think?" He revved the bike, then paused. "Uh, where is the library?" 

 

Mickey actually knew a surprising amount about how libraries worked, considering he'd likely never willingly set foot in one in his life. He led them down an aisle labeled "Pa-Ph" and plucked the book from the shelf in no time. It was exactly the one he'd been looking for, judging by the way he looked at it a little reverently.

Carl ended up sneaking the book out tucked and bent around his sock. ("Fucking skinny jeans make it hard to swipe shit," Mickey had grumbled when he failed to shove the book convincingly down the back of his tight jeans.)

"Coulda just checked it out," Carl told him as Mickey stowed the book in the bike's rucksack when they made it back outside.

"I ain't planning on returning it. Let's go get some lunch." 

They rode until they found a dingy diner and collapsed in a booth. Mickey was rubbing his hands a little, clearly unused to gripping handlebars that long.

"So what's the deal with the kid's book?" Carl asked through a mouthful of burger after the waitress had brought them their food. Mickey scowled as he drowned his pancakes in syrup.

"It's a chapter book, man. It ain't for little kids."

Carl shrugged. They _had_ swiped it from the kid's section of the library, but whatever. 

"They had me working in the prison library after-" Mickey stopped abruptly, swallowed, then restarted, staring fixedly at his plate. "Anyway, I couldn't do anything real physical for a while so I got bitch work to keep me busy." 

"After Angel?" Carl guessed quietly, swallowing a bite of burger that suddenly felt like a rock.  He thought about that story Mickey'd told him a lot. Mickey looked up, startled. 

"No. This was like a year in. Got jumped, had to spend some time in the hospital." He waved a hand dismissively.

"By who?"

Mickey rolled his eyes.

"Just by some fucking guy," he said evasively. 

"A random guy jumped you." 

"Yeah. Got me pretty good too." He lifted his t-shirt briefly to show Carl two red scars over his ribs. He continued his story, raising his voice above Carl's when he tried to ask another follow-up question, "There was nothing to do but fuckin' read in there, and I found that book. And I don't know, something about it just did it for me. Checked it out like 20 times."

"What's it about?" 

"This kid's on this tiny plane to visit his dad and the plane crashes. And he's gotta survive on his own with only a hatchet his mom gave him before he left. Buncha shit happens, he learns how to forage and hunt. Then he gets rescued." 

Carl figured there had to be some symbolism there, for why Mickey would connect with a book about a young boy who had to survive on his own, but he didn't trouble himself too much with it. Instead he focused on Mickey's face. He was gazing into his water glass, a faraway look in his eyes. 

"I'm gonna sound like a fuckin' loser when I say this, but reading books kinda helped me when I was going through some tough shit. Like an escape." 

Carl had never been much of a reader, but he sorta felt that way about movies, so he could relate a little.  

"So you gonna let me borrow this amazing book sometime?"  Carl asked lightly, sucking ketchup off his fingers. Mickey laughed through a bite of pancakes.

"Not with your greasy ass fingers!"

They ate in companionable silence until Mickey washed his last bite down with his OJ and coughed.

"So uh, my PO was on my back about me hanging around 'good influences' and shit. Doesn't think I should be around my brothers."

" _No one_ should hang around your brothers," Carl joked. Mickey bared his teeth but continued on.

"Told him I got a buddy who's gonna be a  cop." 

"Oh God," Carl groaned, seeing where this was going.

"He just wants to fuckin' meet you!" Mickey insisted a little defensively. "It'll get me a shit ton of brownie points. Maybe he'll back off on the surprise visits and I can start slackin' off more at work."

"Now I see why you keep me around," Carl grumbled, but they both knew he would do it. "Ian's a paramedic, you wanna introduce him too?" he joked, then instantly wished he could take it back.  

"That fucker'll probably pretend he doesn't remember my first name," Mickey sneered, face stormy. 

"Why the fuck would he do that?" 

Mickey anger quickly segued into embarrassment when he realized what he'd said.

"Forget it," he mumbled. 

"Ian being a dick to you?" Carl asked him, sort of unsurprised. Lip and Ian both had this way of being pretentious assholes the majority of the time. Lip had always been that way. Ian hadn't been so bad until he'd gotten real stable on his meds. 

Okay, maybe _Carl_ was the asshole for thinking that. 

"It's nothing man." Mickey bit his lip, clearly at a bit of a crossroads. Carl waited him out. Mickey usually relented, and now was no exception, "He never told his boyfriend about me. About us. He says it's cuz he don't talk about his exes, but I think-" he broke off, making eye contact with Carl briefly before snatching the dessert menu from the table and focusing on that instead. "He's fuckin' embarrassed," he muttered finally.

"Of you? Why? You're the shit." 

Mickey looked back up at Carl for a second, his smile patronizing yet grim.

"Cmon man. I just got out of fuckin' prison."

Carl had to give him that. Who would really want to tell people their ex was in prison for attempted murder? 

But Carl knew Ian. And Ian ran away from shit when things got too complicated. 

"There's another reason," Carl said decidedly.  "He's scared to tell him the truth." 

"Why?" 

"Because he's Ian and he's fuckin'..." Carl searched for the words, "emotionally unstable- no, stunted." (Eh, either sort of worked.) "You know how he is."

"No," said Mickey firmly, replacing the dessert menu and looking directly into Carl's eyes. "I don't fuckin' know him at all." 

 

When Carl hopped off the back of Mickey's new-to-him bike an hour later, he was greeted by a sweaty Liam sitting on the front steps looking like he'd just finished mowing the lawn. Liam raised his eyebrows at Carl in amusement as Mickey sped off. 

"You still got a tongue in your mouth, right?" Carl asked him. Liam stared at him quizzically.

"Did I just see you get off the back of Mickey Milkovich's motorcycle?" inquired Fiona with a grin as she rounded the corner of the house, looking equally as sweaty as Liam. She was covered in dirt. She'd obviously been weeding the vegetable garden she had planted in the spring.

"What, no goodbye kiss after your big date?" she teased Carl. Liam snorted.

Carl flipped them both off. Then, because he fucking felt like it, he took out his phone and sent the middle finger emoji to Ian too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Ian
> 
> The time Mickey alluded to where he got jumped is the same time Svetlana references in chapter 2.
> 
> So, Hatchet. I thought for a long time about which book for Mickey to connect with while in prison. I seriously considered the Count of Monte Cristo too but ultimately decided on Hatchet because of the reading level (Mickey's smart, but he has an 8th grade education and his reading instruction was almost definitely lacking, for a lot of reasons) and the storyline that I think Mickey would really connect with. I could write paragraphs worth of a synopsis (I won't), but if you aren't familiar with the book or have maybe forgotten the details, Google it-seriously! I think (hope) you'll find it was a good choice for Mickey.


	9. Chapter 9

Ian: late June

* * *

Ian is just getting out of the shower after work when his phone rattles against the sink in the bathroom. He glances at the caller ID, then does a double take when he sees that it's Yevgeny who is calling.

Yev's phone was a birthday present from Svetlana just a few months ago. Yev has never used it to call Ian, or vice verse. Mostly they just occasionally text back and forth about the puzzle game they're both obsessed with on their phones.

“Hey, Yevgeny,” Ian says when he answers.

“Ian?” Yevgeny's voice sounds too high, even for a nine year old. Like he's trying to hide that he's just been crying. Ian's body hums with sudden panic.

“What's wrong? Yevgeny, what happened?” He listens intently as Yev takes a shaky breath.

“Got into a fight,” Yev says finally.

“With some neighborhood kids?”

“My mom and dad,” mumbles Yev.

“Yevgeny,” Ian says carefully, “Where are you?”

“I dunno,”’ Yevgeny admits, part sheepish, part scared. “Jumped the turnstile and took the El.”

Fuck.

”Send me your location from your phone,” Ian orders, already grabbing his keys and heading toward the parking garage. Yevgeny does as he's told and when Ian looks at it, it isn't so bad. He's still at the El station smack dab in between his neighborhood and Ian's place. “Stay where you are, I'll be there soon. You wanna stay on the phone with me while I drive?”

“I'm not a baby, Jesus!” Yev says, his tone a replica of his father’s. Ian almost laughs.

“Okay.  See you soon.” He hangs up and immediately texts Svetlana as he goes for the stairs instead of the elevator.

_I'm on my way to get Yev, he called me for a ride_

Instantly she begins texting back, and he gets a series of stream of consciousness texts.

 _Where is he_  
_Is he alright_  
_Are they together_  
_I will kill him_  
_Bring him home now!_

Ian frowns as he enters the parking garage. He assumes she is asking about Yevgeny and Mickey. He wonders which one of them she intends to kill.

Definitely Mickey.

_Not with Mickey I don't think. Text you when I get Yev_

To Phil, who will be home soon, he texts _minor family emergency, borrowing the car_

Phil doesn't text back for another fifteen minutes until Ian is pulling up to the El station, where Yevgeny is sitting on a bench, staring at his shoes. Ian glances at the text ( _of course what's going on?_ ) but sets the phone down to call to Yevgeny rather than text him back right away.

“Hop in!” He yells to Yevgeny as he rolls to a stop.

Yevgeny meets Ian's gaze for a moment before his eyes flit away. He has a yellowing bruise in the center of his forehead, probably from head butting a soccer ball.  His white tank top has a grass stain on the chest.  Coupled with blue irises the exact shade of his father's, Yev looks so much like a young Mickey that Ian's breath catches. Ian feels an intense wave of protective instinct come over him.

Yevgeny's definitely been crying, but he's pulled himself together a bit. He climbs into the car and Ian pulls the car away from the curb, heading in the direction of Canaryville.

“Have you talked to your parents since you ran away?” Ian starts.

“I didn't run away! I just needed some space.” Yevgeny sounds at once 9 and 30.  He pulls his knees up to his chest and tugs at the loose strings on his cargo shorts.  He mutters, “Mom’s been texting me.”

“And your dad?” Ian asks. Yevgeny's lower lip trembles a little as he gives Ian a half shrug.  Ian remembers Svetlana's text: _are they together_

Mickey must have taken off too. It was his usual move when he felt cornered, and evidently he'd passed that natural instinct down to his son.

"How long have you been gone?"

"Couple hours," mutters Yevgeny.

At the stoplight he texts Svetlana. _Yev with me. Talking things out. See you in half hour._ The dots that show she's typing appear and reappear multiple times before finally she sends back _okay_.

“Alright, so spill,” he tells Yev as he pockets his phone again.

“I got offered to go to this private North side school on scholarship,” Yevgeny says tonelessly. “To play soccer.”

“What, at nine years old?” Ian asks a little incredulously. “Jesus, the recruiting starts young, huh?” Yevgeny shrugs.  “And your parents aren't happy about it?” Ian prompts when Yevgeny doesn't rush to continue.

“Mom and me knew about it before dad got out. She wanted to wait to ask him until he got like, settled at home and stuff.”

Ian thinks that's probably the worst thing she could have done, knowing Mickey. Her best bet would have been asking him to start over immediately after getting out, before he could get comfortable again in his old neighborhood. Mickey had always been a homebody.

“So he said no," Ian guesses.

“Sorta. Then mom and him started yelling and said some really fucked up shit to each other.” Ian doesn't bother chastising him for his language. His father _is_ Mickey, after all.

“What kind of stuff were they saying?”  Mickey and Svetlana have had some memorable screaming matches in the past.

"They were arguing about what to do and mom was saying she didn't want to be 'stuck in this shithole forever with some idiot who went to prison'.  She called him a-" he glances guiltily at Ian. 

"A faggot?" Ian guesses. Yevgeny nods. Swallows.  _Dammit, Svet,_ Ian thinks _._ Nothing gets Mickey riled up quicker and she knows it.

"And he said- he said he never wanted to be married to a whore."

Ian runs his hands through his hair and blows the air out of his lungs. There's more, he can see it in Yevgeny's pinched face. 

"He said he never even wanted me. A fuckin' mistake." Yevgeny tries in vain to stop more tears from falling. He swipes at his eyes and sniffs a little frantically to keep them in.

Ian grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white.

"In front of you?" Ian asks through gritted teeth. Yevgeny shakes his head.

"They didn't know I heard them. I was listening at the top of the stairs." Yev makes a garbled sort of sound in the back of his throat.

Ian feels tears pricking the back of his eyes.  He blinks them away.

"What happened next?"

"Mom screamed for him to get out. I heard him coming so I ran."

Ian takes a breath, collecting his thoughts.

"Listen Yev, your dad was just mad. Sometimes when you're mad you say things you don't mean." 

Yevgeny glares at Ian out of the corner of his eye.

"You're a bad liar," he tells Ian accusingly.

"Things were... complicated when you were born. It wasn't easy for any of us right away. Especially your dad."

"Why?" 

Ian sighs. 

"When your dad and me were younger we had to sneak around to be with each other, because some people didn't like it when we were together." 

"Why?" Yevgeny asks again.

"Because we're two guys."

Yevgeny makes a confused face, and Ian loves him for it.

"Some people believe that being gay is wrong. They can be cruel or try to hurt gay people."

"Like people who say faggot?" Yevgeny frowns.  He is thinking about his mom- Ian can see the wheels in his brain turning.

"Yeah, sometimes.  Sometimes people say it as a joke.  Your mom says it to get a rise out of your dad. She doesn't mean it."

Ian isn't sure exactly why that's Svetlana's go-to insult with Mickey when she herself has a fluid sexuality. He thinks maybe at one point she'd been angry that her American dream with the husband and baby hadn't turned out so dreamy, and Mickey's penchant for men was the easiest thing to blame.

"So what does that have to do with me being born?" 

Ian's in over his head with this one, he can already tell, but he soldiers on anyway. It might be the only way Yevgeny will understand.

"Your dad and me were caught together by- someone. He wanted to hurt us for being together and he tried to punish Mickey by making him- uh, date your mom." 

It's as kid-appropriate as he can make that story. 

"So he  _didn't_ want to have me," Yev says dejectedly. He kicks at the dash and leaves a footprint behind.

"Not at first. He was really angry and scared because me and him couldn't be together for a while." 

"Why not?"

Ian had wondered the same thing back then. After that horrible morning, all he'd wanted to do was keep Mickey close to him. And Mickey had done the exact opposite. 

While Ian had been reliving the worst time of his life, Mickey was still in the thick of it. What must it have been like living with the man who had done that to you? He must have been terrified.

Ian can't believe explaining this to Yevgeny almost ten years later is what puts things into perspective for him.

"Your dad was trying to protect us by keeping us apart. And I didn't understand that so I went away for a while." 

"So _you're_ the reason he didn't want me." Yevgeny's tone isn't accusatory this time, just matter of fact. 

Ian has never thought of it that way, and his response comes out before his brain can process it,

"I guess, kinda. But we worked it out in the end and we ended up being this pretty cool-" he stops himself abruptly, heart in his throat.

Family. They'd been a family.

"Then dad went to jail and you went away," says Yevgeny with finality.

The jabs at Ian's heart are unrelenting today.

"Yeah," Ian says softly, because it's the truth.  "But you guys are back together now, and your dad's doing all he can to make things up to you, even if he does stupid shit sometimes." 

" _You're_ still gone."  There's no way he remembers what it had been like when they were all together, but Yevgeny still looks at Ian sadly.

"I'm your friend. That's something, right?"

"Yeah, okay," Yev says agreeably after a beat. "There's no room for you in our apartment anyway."

Ian laughs aloud.   
  
When Ian pulls up in the alley of the Alibi a moment later, Yevgeny pauses before getting out.

“Walk me up?” He requests in a small voice.

“Don't want to face your mom alone, huh?”

“She's scary."

Ian chuckles a little, because yes, she is. He kills the car and follows Yev into the back of the bar and then up the apartment steps.

Svetlana throws open the door when she hears them on the steps and pulls Yevgeny into her arms. Her eyes are a little red rimmed, but they're dry. She begins chastising Yev in rapid fire Russian. Ian doesn't know the language but he's pretty sure her lecture is universal- _don't ever do that to me again!_

She glares at Ian when she sees that he's still standing there.

"We need to talk," he tells her firmly, motioning with his head to Yevgeny, who looks torn between hiding his face in Svetalana's shoulder and pushing her away. 

She hesitates, a flash of panic crossing her beautiful sharp features before the mask reappears. 

"Go to your room, Zhenya," she orders her son in English, her words harsh but her hands soft as she cards them through his hair. 

Yev shoots Ian a betrayed look.

"Everything's fine," Ian assures him. "I just want to talk to your mom for a minute."

Yev doesn't look reassured in the least. He scowls and walks the short steps to his room, shutting his door with a loud click. At least he didn't slam it.

Ian bets Yev wishes he hadn't asked Ian up. He would have done it anyway. This is important.

"Can we sit?" Ian asks Svetlana when they're alone. She jerks her head toward the kitchen table. Ian takes his spot where he'd sat weeks before with Mickey and Svetlana takes the chair across from him.

"Yevgeny heard you fighting," Ian tells her coolly. Svetlana's eyes flutter closed briefly.

"What did he hear?" she asks lowly, looking like she already knew the answer.

"Everything." 

Svetlana takes a deep breath through her nose.

"Svet," Ian scolds, "you can't say shit like that to each other."

Instantly Svetlana's face goes from pained to rageful.

"Who are you to tell me how to behave?" she spits at him, keeping her voice down to keep Yevgeny, who is no doubt listening with his ear pressed against the door, from hearing. 

"I care about Yev! He doesn't need to see his parents act like animals around each other! How can you throw Mickey's insecurities in his face like that? You know how he is!"

Svetlana rears back incredulously.

“You are accusing me of being not sensitive when _he_  speaks of his son that way?”

“Trust me, I'm not fucking happy with him either.”

“Listen to you,” Svetlana sneers. “Acting like you are third parent. You are _nothing_ to us _."_

Of all the barbs Svetlana has thrown at him over the years that one smarts the most, especially given his conversation with Yev in the car.  He can't even formulate words for a response.

They sit there with the silence hanging over them. Ian swallows, but his heart remains in his throat.

“I know I'm not his parent,” Ian says slowly, tracing a gash in the wood in front of him. “But I do love Yevgeny. I'm an important part of his life.”

Svetlana huffs.

“Please. You see him to assuage your guilt and that is all.”

“My _guilt_?”

“Yes, your guilt. For abandoning your family without looking back. For throwing Misha to the dogs and leaving him to rot.”

“First of all,” Ian says bitingly, the chagrin leaving him instantly, “I see Yevgeny because I want to. Because he's a sweet kid who deserves everything. And secondly, what was I supposed to do about Mickey? I couldn't be with him anymore, I couldn't be what he wanted. It was painful for me to see him in there looking at me across the glass.”

“You, you, you- that is all I hear you say. You are selfish, and a coward and you did not deserve him.”

He feels like he's been doused in cold water.  He knows it's true, what she said. He'd only been thinking of himself, _has_ only been thinking of himself. He's been in self preservation mode ever since his diagnosis. 

“You do not have to be fucking him to support him, you know,” Svetlana says, her tone a little gentler now, but still blunt. “He and I are not together, but I can still hold his hand.”

“It's different for you guys,” Ian mutters, “You have a kid together.”

“Ian,” Svetlana says. She uses his name so infrequently that he perks up and listens. “He is the one who put penis inside me, but you helped create Yevgeny too."

It's both a morbid and beautiful thought.  He supposes he did play a big role in Yevgeny's conception.  He'd watched it in screaming color.  

And if he hadn't been there that morning it never would have happened. 

The responsibility of Yevgeny had been part of the breakup, if he's honest with himself. He was an eighteen year old kid, mentally ill, just watched his long-desired career be flushed down the drain. Contributing to a household, maintaining a relationship, caring for a kid on top of all that? 

It was too much to handle then, and it's too much to rehash now. 

He changes the subject.

"Where did Mickey go?" 

"How should I know? He takes his gun and stomps out."

Ian's mouth drops incredulously.

"He has a gun on him? Svetlana, he's on parole!" Ian stands so abruptly his chair tips over. "I think I know where he went." 

"No!" Svetlana stands too. "You tell me and I will go."

"He might shoot you," Ian tells her wryly. "Besides, I'll be faster. If he gets picked up he goes back in to finish out his sentence." 

Svetlana does not like that thought. She purses her lips and nods tightly at Ian. Quickly, Ian heads to the door.

“Here,” Svetlana comes up behind him and thrusts a phone in Ian's hand. “He is still not used to carrying phone around.”

Then Svetlana closes the door in his face.

When he returns to Phil's car, Ian pauses and looks at the phone curiously. He pushes the lock button and a series of unread messages show up on the screen.

They're from Svetlana and they aren't very nice.

If they have any chance of making up today, Mickey can't see those messages. 

Ian tries the four corner numbers. It had been Mickey’s password back then. How he'd managed to remember an old boyfriend’s phone password over much more important things, he doesn't know.  
Of course, because Mickey is a creature of habit if there ever was one, the phone unlocks.

Ian goes straight for the message app and quickly deletes the incriminating texts from Svetlana, struggling to keep his curiosity at bay when he sees a conversation from someone named Alex at the top.

Ian closes out of the messages and stares at the home screen for a moment, debating, before opening the camera roll. There aren't many pictures on it- he hasn't had the phone very long, after all.  There is a series of close ups of Mickey scowling and some action shots of Mickey lunging for the camera, obviously taken by Yevgeny. A picture of a piece of paper outlining dates and times to meet at the parole office. One of Svetlana, Yevgeny and Mickey taken selfie style after a soccer match.

And- jackpot- a dick pic.

It isn't of Mickey, Ian is certain of _that_. It must have been sent to Mickey in a text and Mickey felt it decent enough to save it for later. Ian double clicks to enlarge the thumbnail. Yep, it's a nice dick, although based on the angle the picture is taken from, it's probably not as big as it seems.

 It feels funny, knowing Mickey had probably jacked off to this picture. Who knows, maybe he even sent one of his own back.

They'd never sent raunchy texts when they were together. Before he was out, Mickey would have died before having incriminating evidence on his phone like that. And after they were _together_ together, they hadn't spent enough time apart to really have the opportunity for it.

He would have been into it though.

Ian re-locks the phone and puts the car in gear.

 

Ian follows the sounds of rapid gun shots up the stairs of the abandoned complex. He hasn't been back here since that day years ago when he’d confronted Mickey and gotten the shit beat out of him for his efforts.  There's more garbage and more graffiti, but it's otherwise completely unchanged.

He stands awkwardly, in the exact position he had all those years ago, just in Mickey's peripheral until the rest of the clip is empty. Mickey turns to him, one eyebrow raised in bored surprise as only Mickey can do.

“Fuck you want?” Mickey says after a beat. He bends down to reload but glances quickly through his eyelashes at Ian as he does so, one of his telltale signs of anxiety.

“Yevgeny called me,” Ian supplies. Mickey spits onto the dirty floor and says nothing, meticulously stacking bullets into the clip. “He heard what you said." 

Mickey looks up sharply at that, mouth slack, utter panic flashing in his eyes.

"Mickey," Ian soothes, taking a step towards him.

“It's none of your fucking business,” snaps Mickey as he levels the gun as if to begin shooting again. Ian steps back and is again struck with a horrible, twisted sense of deja vu to a decade before in this very same spot.

But Mickey doesn't actually shoot- he just stands there glaring at his target (an old tire this time) with his arms raised. Ian takes this as a good sign and starts talking.

"Yev said it started because they told you about the private school."

" _You_  fucking knew about that too?" Mickey questions accusingly, dropping his shooting stance.

"I just found out today," Ian assures him.  “Why don't you want him to go to that North Side school? You think he won't be able to cut it?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey sneers. “Kids got more brains than me and Svet combined.” He flips the safety on the gun before walking jerkily toward a window ledge and setting  it down. He stands there, both hands on the ledge, looking down from above.

“You're smart,” Ian insists gently. Mickey scoffs.

“Barely passed the fuckin' GED.”

“You got your GED?” Ian can't hide the incredulity from his voice and Mickey manages to somehow look both affronted and embarrassed by Ian's reaction.  “So what are you afraid of then?" Ian presses forward.

“I ain't fucking afraid!” Mickey turns away from Ian and fumbles for a cigarette. Finally, after taking a quick drag and looking everywhere but at Ian's face, Mickey speaks.  “Minute he gets over there he's gonna realize what a piece of trash I am.”

Ian blinks. He hasn't been expecting this response, but it makes sense. The Mickey he'd known had always been an endearing mix of bravado and low self esteem.

“Yevgeny loves you,” Ian says firmly.

“He say that?”

“What do you mean did he say- of course he loves you-”

“No,” spits Mickey, “did he say those actual words? That he loves me.”

Ian falters.

“No, but he's your son. Of course he does.”

"You love your dad?" Mickey challenges him.  Ian hesitates.

"It's complicated, but yeah, I guess I do. What about you?" he shoots back. If there's anyone who doesn't deserve his son's love, it's Terry Milkovich.  Mickey bites his lip and says nothing.  "If you and me can manage to love our dads even a little bit, then I'm pretty sure Yevgeny can love you."

Mickey doesn't argue that point.

“So say he doesn't fucking hate me after he heads to this rich bitch school. What if the other kids give him shit for coming where he comes from?”

Ian considers this, relenting, “That might happen, yeah.”  Mickey huffs out air, clearly annoyed that Ian didn't pacify him with his response.  “So you teach him to crack a few skulls, stand up for himself. Yevgeny's tough. He can handle himself. He's got the most badass parent there is. And you're pretty scary too," he teases.

Mickey snorts at the lame joke.

“It's not really about the fucking school,” Mickey says hesitantly. “It might have started out that way, but then Svet started saying shit and I said some shit back, and then-" He gestures around them to the place he goes when he needs to disappear for a while.

"And _then_  you're risking breaking parole to let off a little steam," Ian finishes for him angrily.  "What the fuck, Mick?" 

"Guess I need better coping strategies," Mickey says sheepishly.  It's such an un-Mickey thing to say, Ian doesn't even know how to respond.

"At least tell me the gun is registered."  Mickey glances at Ian out of the corner of his eyes, working his lower lip between his teeth.  His lack of response is enough.  "Jesus," Ian breathes. "Give it to me." 

Mickey willingly hands it over and Ian takes the clip out, dumping the bullets onto the cement and checking for a live round before he shoves the gun in the pocket of his linen shorts.

"I'm _not_ just happy to see you," Ian deadpans when they both look at the enormous bulge the gun has created in his pocket. 

Mickey laughs out loud at that, and Ian joins in. 

"No guns," Ian admonishes when the laughter dies. 

"Whatever." Mickey sounds gruff, but he looks reproachful and honestly a little relieved.

The summer sun is still high in the sky at this time day, but it's cool in the shade of the cement building. Mickey moves two feet over into a patch of sun and let's his head hang back, soaking in the rays. 

"I uh, told Yevgeny a little bit about how he came about," Ian says haltingly. 

Mickey's neck snaps up so quickly that it must have been painful. 

"What do you fucking mean how he came about?" Mickey seethes.

"He was asking me why his dad called him a fucking mistake! Excuse me for panicking and going with the truth!"

Mickey runs both hands down his face, leaving a dirt smudge on his chin. 

"Well did you at least leave out the fucking details then?" He snips.

"No, I told a nine year old that I was balls deep in his dad when his grandfather caught and beat the shit out of us, then called his mom to come fuck you straight," Ian shoots back sarcastically. 

"Jesus, I get it."  Mickey winces and Ian felt a little bad for snapping at him.

"I told him that some people didn't want you and me to be together, so you had to date his mom. And you were sad you and me couldn't be together so you weren't ready to be a dad."

"All about you, isn't it?" Mickey snarks.  This makes Ian's chest constrict, because it's remarkably similar to what Svetlana has just told him. 

"Sorry," Ian says quickly. "It's the best I could come up with." 

"No," says Mickey, sighing. "That was okay. It's mostly the truth anyway. Svet's gonna kill you though. She made me promise never to tell him."

"She hates me anyway," Ian dismisses, unable to hide the hurt in his voice.

"She doesn't understand. Thinks I'm gonna chase after you and leave the kid hanging again." 

"What?" Ian huffs out a shocked, part embarrassed, part flattered laugh.

"Exactly. Ain't gonna happen," Mickey says firmly. "But I gotta prove it to her anyway, and hanging out with you right now isn't helping."

"You're not allowed to see me?" 

"I can do whatever the fuck I want," Mickey says roughly, avoiding Ian's eyes. 

After a beat, Ian asks, "Why'd she still let me see Yev if she felt that way?" 

"Yev could ask her for the fucking moon and she'd drag my ass to Houston to board a fucking spaceship."   Ian snorts. He didn't know how much he'd missed Mickey's sarcastic wit.   "Anyway, I'm glad he had you, man. He needed a father figure in his life. Can't do much with two twenty minute conversations a month." Mickey's eyes dull for a minute.  He sniffs.

"You're making up for lost time. You're doing good," assures Ian. "Well, except for today." 

Mickey smiles despite himself, then pushes himself off the ledge he'd been leaning on.

"Better go deal with it. Svet's probably foaming at the mouth."

"She is," Ian confirms, following Mickey down the steps. 

"Sweet ride," Mickey intones sarcastically when Phil's white Ford Focus comes into view. 

"Get in, asshole," Ian orders him affectionately.

The short ride home is mostly silent. Ian knows Mickey is feeling more like himself, because he watches Ian's face with a grin as Ian purses his lips when Mickey lights a cigarette.

Ian chooses to say nothing, just rolls all the windows down and secretly enjoys the comforting smell. It reminds him of Lip sitting on the back porch of the Gallagher house as a teenager, lamenting over Karen. It reminds him of Mickey, already with a post-coital cigarette between his lips as he zips up his pants, back when they were just kids fooling around.

When they stop in the alley behind the Alibi they see Svetlana having a smoke on the fire escape. Mickey turns, eyes meeting Ian's for a long moment, before hopping out and slamming the door. It's been a while, but Ian's Mickey-ese is coming back to him. And that's Mickey's way of saying thanks.

“Kid here?” He calls to Svetlana. She nods.

The back door of the bar slams behind Mickey.  Svetlana stands, extinguishing her smoke.

“Svetlana,” Ian calls to her, sticking his head out the window. “I might have got him to come back- but he didn't do it for me.”

They stare at one another for a beat. Then Svetlana nods.

“Spasibo,” she says to him, then ducks back through the window.

Ian finally checks his phone as he makes his way home. He's got five missed calls and a few texts from Phil.

He sighs. He'll deal with that when he gets home.  His body and mind are exhausted from the day's drama. He's feeling confused too, about a lot of things he hasn't let himself process in a long time. 

 

Phil hears Ian's keys in the door and swings it open before Ian can turn the handle.

"Everything's fine," Ian says quickly before Phil can open his mouth.

"What happened? You texted me _hours_ ago about some emergency and then didn't text back!"

"Yevgeny ran away. I found him and brought him home," Ian tells him, yawning. "You think you could heat me up some dinner?"

"Yevge- Svetlana's kid?"  

"And Mickey's." Ian shuffles into the bathroom to take his evening meds. Phil leans against the door jam.

"I thought Mickey was gay."

"He was closeted for a long time. You know how it is." 

"So you hang out with _Mickey's_ kid," Phil states a little aggressively. "Why?" 

Ian pauses. He's already had about three opportunities in this conversation to tell Phil the truth about his past with Mickey. 

He can't do it yet. It will unquestionably change things between him and Phil, and he doesn't have the energy for it right now.

"Mickey was a buddy. I kept his kid company while he was locked up."

Okay, so maybe he's digging himself a deeper hole.

Phil, always able to sense when Ian is closing off, backs off of him.

"Go lay down and I'll bring you toast," he orders gently, pushing him toward the bedroom. "But we'll talk more about this later." 

Ian barely makes it through one piece of toast before sleep beckons.

"Oh," he says to Phil as he drifts off, "there's a gun in your center console." 

"What the fuck?" he hears Phil say before he succumbs.

He'll deal with shit when he's ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Fiona
> 
> I was surprised that Ian and Svetlana didn't even have a conversation about what went down in season five (well, based on my research they didn't-remember I haven't seen all of season six). But she seems like the type to turn lemons into spiked lemonade and just deal with things as they come along. So I'm thinking her feelings toward Ian were maybe held just below the surface for a long time. That's what I'm going with anyway. Canon is hard to justify sometimes!


	10. Chapter 10

Fiona: early July

* * *

  
One good thing about her job, Fiona mused, was the schedule. She never worked nights, worked short hours every other weekend, and had federal holidays off.  Like today.

Independence Day had always been one of her favorite holidays. It was summer, for one, and nothing could beat that. It was also a day where all her siblings (minus Debbie- Fiona always got a lump in her throat when she was reminded that one was missing) could get together and party in the backyard on the cheap- no need for a big meal or a gift exchange.  

Typically they did it BYOB-potluck style, and this year was no different. Lip supplied the burgers and dogs, Carl the buns, Ian the fixings, Fiona the potato salad, and Kev and V chips. In years past, Svet and Yev had also come along with dessert.

This year Fiona extended the invitation to the Milkovich family sort of expecting them to decline, but Svetlana had fixed Fiona with her patented you're-an-idiot look and said, “Of course. It is tradition.”

It was a strange year in that no significant others of the Gallaghers were present. In fact, Fiona was pretty sure this was the first year that more than one Gallagher was even single at one time. Serial daters, all of them.  

Ian had even shown up without Phil and said with a shrug, “He went to a thing with his parents,” when she asked him about it.  The Milkoviches had arrived at that exact moment and Fiona had lost Ian's attention.

Something was definitely going on there, Fiona decided, but she wasn't sure what. The two men hadn't said much to one another besides “hey” and a little small talk, but every time Fiona looked Ian's way his eyes were on Mickey.

Whatever it was, it seemed a little one sided.  Mickey, for his part, didn't seem to notice much as he horsed around with Carl and (badly) kicked the soccer ball around with Yev and Dominic.

Dominic played soccer with Yevgeny on the park district team during the school year, but he wasn't dedicated or talented enough to join the traveling team. Dom and Yev had always been good buddies (they were practically the exact same age after all), but they upgraded to best friend status when Dominic moved in full time with the Balls two years ago.

Carol's unexpected death and the challenges of three kids the exact same age under her roof was tough on V, but she muscled through it like she did everything. And Dominic was a good kid. A little dopey, but that was an endearing quality he shared with his dad.

While Kev started up the grill, the others began an impromptu touch football game.  Svetlana begged off immediately, scrunching her nose up at "American sports."

V and the twins dropped out of the game when it was clear that touch football was quickly turning into tackle football, as Lip went down courtesy of Ian dragging him by the waist into the grass.

Fiona, used to growing up with her rough and tumble brothers, lasted the longest- until Liam brought her to the grass with a  rougher than necessary (in her opinion) tackle. Carl smacked him on the back of the head for being a douche as Fiona limped out of the playing field.

Some days she felt so old.

Fiona flopped down and squeezed between V and Svet on the old loveseat they'd dragged into the yard to watch the boys play. Carl and Mickey, pretty evenly matched even with the height difference, got in every dirty shot they could get when one of them had the ball.

When Yevgeny passed the ball to his dad, Carl wasted no time tackling Mickey to the ground, and soon they were wrestling playfully on the grass together, ball forgotten.

Carl had Mickey pinned to the ground, and he threw all of his weight onto Mickey's back and scrabbled to contain Mickey's arms when Mickey rolled onto his stomach and tried to squirm away.

“Uh-uh, you're mine, bitch!” Carl growled playfully.

In an instant it turned ugly. Mickey roared and tried to buck Carl off with all his force, kicking at any part of Carl he could reach when Carl didn't immediately let up. He scrambled onto his back and threw a wild punch, landing on Carl's jaw. Carl howled and cowered, protecting his head and not even trying to fight back as Mickey kept swinging and kicking from his defensive position on the ground, eyes wild and panicked.

The rest of the party could only stare, frozen, until Gemma’s shriek of fear spurred everyone into action at once.

“Get off!” Lip cried, leaping forward to drag Carl out of Mickey's reach as Ian lunged for Mickey. Kev pushed his frightened twin daughters behind his back and brandished his tongs. It would almost have been comical if the situation weren't so terrifying.

Svetlana moved calmly to Yevgeny, who was still crouched to retrieve the forgotten ball. His face was white under his summer tan.

Ian managed to snag Mickey under the armpits and dragged him backwards. They landed with a thud on the ground in a heap, Ian's arms in a vice around Mickey's chest.

“Mick,” Ian said, using his calm, authoritative on-the-the job voice as Mickey started to struggle against him. “Mickey, it's over.”

Fiona and V rushed to Carl's side. Carl was groaning a little, but was pushing himself onto his knees. Fiona suspected he'd been more scared by the feral nature of the attack than actually hurt.

“You okay?” V questioned Carl, gently touching the growing bruise on his right cheekbone.

“Yeah,” breathed Carl, staring in open mouthed shock. Fiona followed his gaze to where Mickey and Ian still sat tangled together. Ian had loosened his grip, but seemed reluctant to let go. Mickey was breathing heavily but was returning to himself. Fiona watched as panic and fear disappeared from his eyes and mortification took its place.

“Fuck,” muttered Mickey, rubbing his hands over his face. “I'm good,” he grumbled to Ian, shoving at the hands around his chest. Ian let him go, raising his hands in front of his body in a gesture of peace as Mickey scrambled up from the ground.

He stood there, taking in everything- Lip and Kev's defensive postures, Fiona and V crouched over Carl, who still sat on the ground, blood dripping from his nose.

Finally, he turned to Svetlana, who had an arm around each of Yev and Dominic’s shoulders. Yev could do nothing but stare agape at his father.

“Svet,” he pleaded.

“Go,” Svetlana ordered him gently, pointing at the house. Mickey did as he was bid, abruptly turning to bolt into the safety of the empty house.

“Holy fuck,” Kev breathed as soon as the door slammed. “What the fuck?”

“It was my fault,” Carl said dejectedly, wincing as he picked himself up off the ground. “I shouldn'tve tackled him like that.”

“You didn't know, sweetie,” Fiona soothed.

"Kinda did," Carl muttered. "He told me about some shit that happened to him.  I shoulda known he'd react like that."

Ian's mouth slackened as he stared at his younger brother.

"You were just horsin' around," Fiona assured again. Carl shrugged, looking forlorn.

“Dom, take your sisters and Yev and go play video games at our house,” V ordered suddenly. “Bring some burgers and we'll come get you in a bit.”

"You too Liam," Fiona ordered.

Liam sent her a scathing look. He was not happy about being lumped in with the kids.

"Tell me a reason you should stay," she challenged him, uncaring in the moment that it was probably a little cruel of her.

Liam automatically looked to Ian, his usual supporter on the matter of his selective mutism, but Ian was staring at the back door to the house like he wished he had x-ray vision.

Liam made a exasperated noise in his throat, then snatched a burger from Kev's waiting pile and stomped off in the direction of the Balls' house.  

Svetlana and Yevgeny had a short argument in Russian before she handed him a plate of food and pushed him toward Kev and V’s house too. Yev grumbled and glanced forlornly at the Gallagher house, where his father was likely pacing, before following Dominic, Amy and Gemma.

“What happened to him?” Ian, voice thick with emotion, asked as soon as the kids were gone.  He stared from Carl to Svetlana but looked like he didn't really need an answer.  Neither of them gave him one.

They could all sort of guess, anyway.

Lip flopped down into a lawn chair and eventually Carl followed suit.

“Y’can take the felon outta prison, can't take prison outta the felon,” Lip drawled behind a cigarette.

Carl kicked the legs out from under Lip’s chair and gazed impassively as Lip collapsed on the ground with the lawn chair clamped around his ass.

“Could you try not to be a total asshole for once?” Ian spat at his older brother. He finally raised himself off the ground and was practically vibrating with emotion. “I'm gonna go talk to Mickey.”

“No,” Fiona insisted quickly before Svetlana could protest. “You guys eat. I gotta go grab the potato salad. I'll check in on him."

Ian opened his mouth to argue but Svetlana stalked forward, grabbing the stack of paper plates from the patio table and shoving them into his chest.

“Fiona will go. She is least threatening. We will eat.”

Fiona wasn't sure if that statement should offend her or not. She patted an anxious Ian on the shoulder, squared her own, and went up the back steps.

The door to the bathroom was closed. Fiona busied herself in the kitchen, opening cupboards and slamming the fridge door to alert Mickey to her presence. The bathroom door opened and Fiona pretended to focus intently finding a serving spoon in the drawer.

“Just getting the potato salad,” she explained herself. She chanced a glance up and found Mickey standing at the table, fists curled tightly on the back of a chair.

“He okay?” He asked abruptly.

“Carl? Oh yeah, he's had worse, trust me. It's basically a family tradition for someone to bleed on a holiday.” The laughter died on her own lips as she processed her attempt at a joke. She was standing in the exact place her mother had collapsed after she slit her wrists.

Fiona swallowed.

"I uh, had a cigarette in your bathroom," Mickey told her a little sheepishly, gesturing to where he'd just emerged. 

"If only that was the most scandalous thing someone's done in there," Fiona joked. “Are you okay?” She asked him carefully. Mickey gnawed on his lip. 

"Yeah," he said finally. Fiona raised her eyebrows.

"You went a little crazy out there," she prodded gently.

"Just some shit I'm dealing with. PTSD, or whatever the fuck it's called." He waved a hand vaguely in the air.

Jesus.  It was a much more honest answer than she'd been expecting.  She didn't know what to say.

She tried for a little levity to ease her awkwardness.

"Prison wasn't all it's cracked up to be, huh?" 

She winced after it came out of her mouth.  God, she was an idiot. She wouldn't be surprised if he smacked her too.

"You would know," Mickey snarked back.

Fiona huffed out a laugh. Mickey's mouth quirked up at the corner in a sardonic smirk. 

"Guess we'll have to swap stories sometime," she teased. 

"Wouldn't wanna hear most of mine," Mickey warned her, crashing her happier mood back down to Earth.

"D'you at least have someone you can talk to about it?" she asked him, abandoning all pretenses of messing with her potato salad to focus her attention solely on Mickey.

Mickey made a face and Fiona hastened to add, "not like a therapist or anythin'. Like a buddy. Svetlana or Carl."  She hesitated. "Or Ian?"

Mickey snorted.

So there _was_ still a little bad blood between Ian and Mickey.  At least for Mickey, anyway.

"Svetlana told me Ian came to see you before I did, that time he was committed.  He visit a lot?"

"Couple times in the beginning."  Mickey shrugged.

Fiona waited, but Mickey didn't expound. 

"Well, I'm sorry I came to see you then that one time.  Probably made things worse."

Mickey shook his head.

"Nah, I'm glad I knew. Wish you hadn't left me fuckin' hanging though."  He stared her down.

"Sorry," she told him guiltily, "I shoulda came back.  But things sorta imploded when Ian found out I went to see you."  Fiona dragged her hands through her hair. 

"Pissed you were meddling huh?" Mickey smirked. 

"He's just been so- weird about you the whole time you've been gone. Like you hardly even existed."

Mickey's blank expression barely changed, but she spotted a flicker of pain in his eyes.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I'll shut up now."  Jesus, she'd apologized like a dozen times in the span of one minute.

Mickey just raised one eyebrow at her and made a move to head toward the front door, away from the people waiting for him in the backyard.

"Wait-" Fiona stopped him, catching him on the arm. "How come you stopped seein' your family?  After me and Ian came to see you." 

"Huh?" 

"Svetlana said that after Ian was committed you wouldn't see her and Yev for two months. Was it because I told you about Ian?"  Fiona had felt guilty about this ever since her conversation with Svetlana months ago.

For a moment Mickey continued to look genuinely confused, then his eyes widened as realization dawned on him. Instantly his gaze shot to the ground.  He shrugged one shoulder.

"Wasn't really about Ian. Or them.  It was just bad fucking timing." 

It was Fiona's turn to look puzzled.

Mickey seemed to be deliberating about something.  He was working his lip between his teeth like crazy.

"Couple days after you came by- my cell mate OD'ed," he told the floor.  "Fucked me up for a while."

Fiona wasn't really sure what that had to do with anything.

"Were you guys close or somethin'?"

Mickey looked up at her then and raised his eyebrows meaningfully. 

" _Oh_."

Fiona didn't know why it surprised her to hear Mickey'd been in a prison relationship. Curiosly, she wondered which one had been the 'bitch'.

As if he could read it on her face, Mickey blurted, "It wasn't fucking like that. We were just together." 

They stood there silently for a moment. Mickey shifted his weight, and when he spoke again his voice cracked.

"Found him in his bunk. Choked on his own vomit.  Already turning fucking blue." 

Fiona raised her hands to her mouth. To find your own boyfriend like that!  She'd had nightmares about it, after Sean, that always left her a heaving, crying mess when she woke up.

"Mickey, I'm so sorry." 

"He was a junkie. Shoulda fuckin' expected it."  Mickey shrugged like he could take it or leave it, but he was desperately trying not to cry.  Watching him try to keep it together was making it hard for her to keep it together.

"How long were you two..." she trailed off, not sure of what terminology to use.

"Couple years." Mickey sniffed. Fiona followed his gaze out into the backyard through the kitchen window.  

Mickey laughed bitterly.  "Can't even keep guys around when they got nowhere else to go." 

The tears Fiona had been fighting came on with a vengeance. 

"Oh Mickey, don't. Don't do that to yourself." She took a step toward him and he flinched. "You said so yourself that your guy was a junkie. It had nothin' to do with you.  Same for Ian.  He was sick."

Mickey said nothing.  

"It'll happen," she encouraged.  "Some day, with someone who deserves you."  She told herself the same thing all the time. She wasn't always sure she believed it, and judging by the look on Mickey's face, he didn't either.

"I'm gonna hug you now," Fiona warned him, swiping under her eyes with her fingers. "You don't hafta hug back." 

Mickey looked a little panicked, but he managed to keep himself still while she approached.  He stood stiffly in her arms for a minute when she embraced him. Then she felt light pressure of his palms on her back, as if it went against his very nature to seek out physical comfort.

It probably did.

Fiona let her tears flow freely.

"What was his name?" she asked Mickey quietly when she let him go. Mickey rubbed his eyes with his palms, then sniffed.

"Travis," he muttered quietly.  "Trav."  

"Well, I'm sorry about Trav."

Mickey jerked his head once in acknowledgement, screwing up his mouth to keep his emotions at bay.

"Was a long time ago," he deflected.

"Doesn't matter," Fiona insisted. 

The back door opened without warning, and Fiona and Mickey jumped apart from each other on instinct.

"Everything okay?" Ian asked slowly, eyes taking in the wet cheeks of Fiona, the sudden distance between the two of them, and finally stopping at Mickey's face. "Mick?"

"Yep," Fiona answered for him quickly, voice falsely cheerful. "Mickey was just gonna go get the kids from Kev and V's house."  Fiona swiped her fingers swiftly over her cheeks.

After a beat, Mickey got with the program.

"Yeah," he said a little thickly.  He cleared his throat. "I'll go uh- get the kids." 

He turned to Fiona, making pointed eye contact for a long moment.

_This stays between us._

Fiona gave him a tiny nod in acknowledgement, and Mickey turned on his heel and marched for the front door without a second glance at Ian.

"What happened?" Ian asked when the front door slammed, his tone a little harsher than before.  He looked equal parts agitated and concerned.

Fiona sniffed, turning away from Ian and dumping the potato salad unnecessarily from the Tupperware into a serving bowl.

"We talked a little. He's okay."

"You're _crying_. _He_ was crying."  

Fiona shrugged.

"Guess we had a moment." 

She suddenly felt angry with Ian, angrier with him than she'd been in a while. He was part of the reason Mickey felt like he didn't deserve to be loved.

"He tell you why he freaked out on Carl?" Ian pressed.

"Ask him yourself.  Not my business to tell," she clipped.

"You've never had any problems getting in people's business before," he snapped accusingly. 

Fiona just stared at him.

"Really? You're gonna throw that in my face again. Svetlana _told_ me you went and saw Mickey, Ian. Just before you committed yourself. And yet you had the balls to freak out on me for trying to keep the guy you _supposedly_ loved in the loop."  

"I did love him," he insisted defensively. "I loved him," he said again, more to himself.

"Then why've you been acting like he meant nothin' to you all this time? He's been through some tough shit, Ian.  Coulda used your support."

Maybe it was a little unfair of her to attack Ian like this when she herself hadn't given Mickey much thought in the eight years he was gone.  But here in the moment, given what Mickey had shared with her, she didn't much care.

Ian's face contorted into a mix of anger and shame.

"Everyone can stop saying that shit now! I get it okay?"

They glared at each other. Ian broke first. 

"He always seemed like he could look out for himself," Ian said hollowly. 

"Sure he can," breezed Fiona, wiping at her eyes one more time before picking up the forgotten potato salad and moving around Ian.  "But no one wants to have to." 

Ian gripped her tightly by the elbow before she could leave.

"I want to make it right, Fi," he told her lowly. "What should I do?" 

He looked so lost.  Fiona hadn't seen him look this unsure of himself in a long time.

"I don't know," she answered honestly.  "But I'd probably start with 'I'm sorry'."

She leaned forward and kissed her little  brother on the cheek.  Then, finally, she brought the poor forgotten potato salad out to the party, closing the door on Ian behind her.

"Sorry about the wait," she told them as she plunked the dish down onto the patio table. "Mickey went to go get the kids."

No one asked what transpired, but they weren't doing a great job of hiding their curiosity, particularly Kev and V.  The two of them were world class rubberneckers.

As if on cue, Mickey turned the corner without any kids in tow.

"Couldn't get them off the fuckin' video games," he told them all. He took a drag of his cigarette. "Liam's kicking their asses in Mario Kart. They still make that fuckin' game?"

"Mario Kart's a classic, man! They're always gonna make that game," Kev commented, handing Mickey a plate with a burger.

Mickey passed his cigarette to Carl to finish so he could start eating with both hands. Fiona watched them make brief eye contact and grin at each other for a moment while the smoke exchanged hands.

The bro version of making up, Fiona supposed.

"If there isn't someone to kill I ain't interested." It took a few seconds for Fiona to realize Mickey was still talking about video games.

Mickey took a huge heaping of potato salad and licked a spill off his thumb.

"This is good shit," he told Fiona. He pulled an empty chair up next to Svetlana and sat down heavily. Svetlana brushed her hand over the back of his shoulders, but kept her face blank.

Fiona looked away. It seemed somehow to be too intimate a moment for her to witness. Maybe because they'd always been seconds away from strangling one another in the past.

"Where'd Ian disappear to?" V wondered.

"Taking a shit I think," Mickey offered with a mouthful of food.

"Ew, you coulda just said he had to go to the fuckin' bathroom!" V shuddered.

Mickey shrugged, grinning. There wasn't a trace of negative emotion left over on his face from the conversation he and Fiona had just had in the kitchen.

Fiona wished she looked as unaffected.  But she felt like maybe when he'd shared that story with her, she'd taken a piece of the pain he was carrying from around his shoulders.  

Or maybe he was just really good at hiding shit. 

An hour passed without Ian reappearing. Fiona started to wonder if she should go check on him when she heard a sharp whistle to her left.

The whole group of them turned at once, and were immediately pelted by water balloons courtesy of the cackling children, with Ian at the helm.

Every adult let out their own version of a shriek.

"My hair," V wailed.

Fiona bolted from her chair and turned to the right to avoid the still flying balloons when she was stopped in her tracks by Yevgeny in front of her, gripping a loop in the garden hose and grinning like a mad man.

"Don't you fuckin'-" the rest of Mickey's threat was cut off by a splutter as Yevgeny chose his target and sprayed his father directly in the face.

It was pandemonium after that. Everyone was yelling and shrieking and taking turns wrenching the hose away from each other.  Kev came out of nowhere and dumped a bucket of water directly over Ian's head. 

Lip rounded up a tarp from the basement and a makeshift slip and slide was created. 

Svetlana declared herself the judge, and they began an impromptu contest to see who could be the most creative with their slides (Carl won). 

When it was over and their wet clothes began to make them shiver, Fiona made everyone hang their wet, muddy shirts along the chain link fence to dry a little in the sun. 

"That was a good call," Fiona told Ian quietly as they wrung out their shirts next to one another. "Really eased the tension."

"Yeah," Ian agreed.  "Nice to have some fun."

She followed his gaze to Mickey twenty feet away, who was laughing as he wrung his shirt out over Yevgeny's head. Mickey's chest and stomach were even paler that Ian's. 

Fiona faltered when she caught sight of the large block lettering over Mickey's heart.  She turned shocked eyes to Ian, but he didn't look surprised. Neither was anyone else, it seemed, if their lack of reaction was anything to go by.

All except Lip, who caught Fiona's eye and mouthed _Ian Gallagher?_ drily. 

"You gonna say what you need to say to him?" Fiona asked Ian, gesturing slightly to Mickey with her head.

"Yeah," Ian answered vaguely, "when I get a chance."  

Just then a car rolled by in the back alley and a man leaned out and cat called loudly, leering at V and Fiona standing outside in their bras. Ian stepped in front of Fiona, blocking her from view.

"Hey, come over here and say that shit again!" Carl roared threateningly as the car sped away.

"Don't scare him away, he was kinda cute," Fiona chided Carl teasingly. 

"Go up and change," Ian ordered her, pushing her to the house.  "Bring us some clean shirts."

Fiona laughed and began to do as she was told, but paused at the top of the steps, watching Ian approach Mickey, who was still horsing around with Yevgeny.  

The tension that had been present between them earlier seemed to have disappeared with the water fight. They were both smiling genuinely at one another.

Fiona smiled too. They'd figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Ian
> 
> I'm just itching to tell Mickey's whole story.


	11. Chapter 11

Ian: mid July

* * *

 Ian likes this time of day.

It may be hot as fuck out, but it's sunny and bright and the El is significantly less crowded than usual at 2:30 in the afternoon on a Wednesday. He's working the early early morning to mid afternoon shift this week. It works well for him because he can never sleep very well past 3:30 anyway.

Ian hasn't bothered to change out of his uniform today. He kind of likes wearing the navy blue pants and lighter blue dress shirt on the El, because even though it's clear from the patch on the breast pocket that he is medical personnel, he looks enough like an authority figure that people give him a wide berth, particularly when he's heading further south to see his siblings.

He goes through the turnstile and waits for the train. Phil had called from work saying they had a project to finish and that he'd be home late. Ian feels both pleased and guilty by this fact. Phil has done nothing but continue to be his kind, easygoing self lately but Ian is starting to crave a little space, and he avoids thinking about why for too long.

He wonders how Mickey's faring in the dating world. Then he shakes his head, willing the thought to go away.

But as luck would have it, the El arrives and slows to a stop in front of Ian and he spies none other than Mickey and Yevgeny stretched out in a nearly-empty train car. They're both staring down at their laps, Yev with his phone, and Mickey with... a book?

Of all the train cars in the city, they're going to be on the same one at the exact same time. It's fucking kismet.

“Small world,” Ian says as he hustles toward them, flopping down across from Yev and diagonal to Mickey and swinging his duffel bag between his feet. “Hey Mickey, hey Yevgeny.”

They haven't seen each other since the Fourth of July party.  Ian hasn't been able to get the image of Mickey's stricken face out of his head since then.  Ian's sort of been on a downswing ever since then.  It takes a little more effort to get out of bed every morning.

But today Mickey greets him with a slow grin, like he's legitimately pleased to see him.  It dulls the memory of their last interaction a bit and instantly brightens Ian's mood.

“Hey,” Mickey says as he blatantly looks Ian up and down. Ian can feel his own grin stretching across his face in response.

“You look like a cop,” Mickey tells him.

“You like it,” Ian shoots back teasingly.

Mickey just smirks, biting his lip and raising one brow in a familiar flirty gesture that Ian remembers well. His body hums and his dick twitches.

“And you look like a businessman,” Ian observes, taking a moment to admire Mickey in a white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows with a skinny black tie around his neck. He's wearing dress pants and dress shoes too.  "Are you reading a book?"

"Shut the fuck up." Mickey stashes the paperback under his leg like it's something shameful to be caught reading.  “Say hi to Ian,” Mickey orders to his son, who has his legs stretched over top of a soccer ball on the seat next to him. He's dressed up too in a blue polo shirt and khaki slacks. Yevgeny is so engrossed in his phone game that Mickey has to kick him in the leg before he even glances up.

“Hi to Ian,” Yev mutters.

“Smart ass,” Mickey scolds affectionately, shaking his head in with a what-can-you-do expression on his face.

“So why're you way up here all dressed up?” Ian asks curiously.

“We had that thing at the north side school. The interview to see if the kid's a good fit.”  Mickey fixes Ian with that same look of gratitude he'd given him before he got out of the car that day of the Yevgeny fiasco.  Like Ian had a part in Mickey being okay with everything.

It makes Ian feel good.

Ian beams at Yevgeny, who is gazing open mouthed at his phone as his thumbs work furiously. “How'd it go?”

“Real good, actually,” Mickey answers for Yevgeny, sounding a little pleasantly surprised. “Justin Bieber over here killed it with the interview part. They liked that he knew Russian. Said they strive for all students to be multicultural or some shit. I guess it pays to have a Russian wh- uh, a Russian chick for a mom.” He glances guiltily at his son, rubbing aggressively at his lower lip.

The wedding ring he's wearing on his left hand glints at Ian, and alerts him to something else. Ian snatches Mickey's hand and inspects it closer.

There are no knuckle tattoos visible.

“She made me wear the ring, man,” says Mickey defensively, yanking his hand back.

“Not that. Your tattoos.”

“Oh.” Mickey flushes a little. “Yeah. That was Svet's idea too. Makeup.” He licks a finger and scrubs at his left ring finger until the U begins to show through.

“I didn't know makeup came in eggshell white,” Ian jibes teasingly.

“Who you calling pasty, Casper?” Mickey gives him the finger.

“I feel like you just lost all your street cred without those tats,” Ian taunts. “I have the sudden urge to steal your lunch money and throw you in a locker. You wanna come do my taxes for me? Are you riding the El because your smart car ran out of batteries this morning?”

Mickey yanks Yevgeny's soccer ball out from under his feet and bounces it against Ian's head, and then swears as he hops up and chases it down the car when it rolls away. An old lady tsks at him.

“Didn't Svet go with you?” Ian asks when he stops laughing and Mickey settles back down looking flustered but still pleasant.

“Yeah, but she had, uh, a thing after.” Mickey scratches his nose with his thumb and looks away from Ian's eyes.

“Shopping or something,” Yev supplies out of nowhere. “Who's Justin Bieber?” Yev flicks his long dark hair out of his eyes unironically as he says it.

Mickey raises his eyebrows comically high and gives Ian his I-can't-believe-I-put-up-with-this-shit look. Ian laughs out loud. He feels like it's all he's been doing for the last five minutes.

Mickey's phone buzzes and he pulls it from his pocket.

“What the fuck is this shit?” Mickey complains, looking at his phone with disgust. “People try to hold entire conversations with this emoji shit now.”

“Pretty sure they did that before you went in, Mick,” Ian laughs. “Give me your phone, old man.”

When Mickey hands it over, Ian glances at the name of the person Mickey's texting with (Alex) and feels sudden guilt for betraying his privacy those weeks ago. Then his stomach does that twisty thing when he interprets the text.

“He wants to go out on a date. For pizza. Then fuck after.”

“What?” Mickey snatches the phone back.

“Banana, eggplant, corn on the cob. Universal emojis for dick,” Ian supplies, pointing out the last three of a string of emojis.

“Maybe he's just really hungry,” Yevgeny pipes up. Mickey's face goes bright red as he gapes at his son.

“Oh he's hungry for somethin’,” Ian jeers playfully, hating himself a little. Alex is probably the dick pic guy.

Mickey punches him in the leg none too gently, but he's suppressing his own smile.

"Whatever," Mickey says.  He pockets the phone without replying to the text.

“This is my stop,” Ian tells them a little forlornly as the upcoming station comes in view. He feels reluctant to leave.

“This is your neighborhood?” Mickey stares out the window in awe. “You done good for yourself, huh uptown girl?”

“You guys wanna hop off and grab something to eat with me?” Ian asks, standing as the El slows. “I know a good burger place a few blocks away.” He watches Mickey hopefully as Mickey considers the offer.

“No thanks, man,” Mickey says with finality. “We gotta get home.”

“Oh. Okay.” He tries to hide his disappointment. “Well, see you guys.”

“Yeah, see you around,” Mickey replies. He snaps his fingers in front of Yevgeny's face until Yev gives a halfhearted “bye”.

Mickey and Ian smirk at each other until Ian has no choice but to exit the train car. He stands on the platform as the train begins to pull, watching Mickey return to his phone, no doubt to text Alex back about their hot date tonight.

What would it have been like if they'd stayed together with no bipolar, no prison separating them? Would they have gone together, all four of them, to Yevgeny's school interview, proudly displaying their unconventional family unit? Would they cheer Yev on at his soccer matches? Fight with Svetlana over stupid things like haircuts and video game exposure?

It's hard to believe the Mickey who'd once looked like he'd rather stab himself in the eye than hold his own kid is the same Mickey who is putting himself out there for his kid, who is changing himself so Yevgeny can have more than he had.

It's hot. “Dad” Mickey is fucking hot.

Ian shakes his head.  These are dangerous thoughts.  Ian's with Phil now, and Mickey's moved on too.  And there's still some heavy shit between them that Ian isn't sure how to make go away. 

But Ian's missed _this_ that they had today, the easy back and forth conversations, the relaxed teasing, and Mickey's hilarious use of his eyebrows.

Maybe they could have more of that if they were friends.

Before he can think about it too much, Ian texts Yevgeny:  _give me your dad's number._

He sets off, heading in the direction of his apartment.  Just one minute later, Ian's phone buzzes with Mickey's contact information courtesy of Yev.  Ian wonders if Yev told Mickey that he'd given Ian his number.

Quickly, before he can lose his nerve, Ian texts Mickey _It's Ian_.  Then he adds the smiling poop emoji because why not. 

He's walked two whole blocks before he gets a response back: the middle finger emoji.

Ian snorts.  If Mickey's entire being could be described with one emoji, that one would be it.

While Ian is looking at his text from Mickey, his phone alerts him to a text from Phil.   _Want me to pick up Chinese on the way home tonight?_

The guilt he's been tucking away recently rears back tenfold.

He needs to bite the bullet.  He'll feel better when he tells Phil the truth about Mickey.

He texts back _I'll make late dinner._

_sooo, grilled cheese or oatmeal then?_ Phil replies.

Ian sends _him_ the middle finger emoji.

Now that the decision to put it all on the table has been made, Ian's anxiety rises.  He stops in a corner store and picks up pasta and sauce and grabs some wine too.

Phil might take the news better with a little booze. 

He takes a nap when he gets home so he doesn't have to spend the next few hours thinking.  When his alarm goes off he starts boiling some water and putting together a salad with the sorry looking greens in the fridge.  Phil usually cooks for them, but he's had a long couple days at work so they've done takeout the last few nights.  

"Smells good," Phil calls when he opens the door at 6:30.  The food's been ready for twenty minutes due to Ian's bad timing.  He'll have to stick their plates in the microwave for a minute.  

"It's just spaghetti. Think I over cooked the noodles."

Phil kisses Ian on the mouth, then moves to snag a noodle out of the colander.

"Not bad," he says generously, though Ian can tell by the way he's chewing that it's rubbery.

Well, so much for buttering him up with food.

"Hey, it's the thought that counts, right?" Phil says, sensing Ian's disappointment.  He grins at Ian and sits at their tiny table when the microwave dings.  "So what's the occasion?" 

Ian startles a little. It isn't like he hadn't been expecting to be called out, but he thought maybe he'd have more time.

"Just wanted to show you how much I appreciate you. Well, that was the plan anyway. Even the salad sucks."  He picks up the serving bowl and shakes the wilted leaves a little.

"Company doesn't," Phil tells him through a mouthful.  Ian can't help but smile at that, but it comes out a little sickly looking.  

"Gotta tell you something," Ian starts before he loses his nerve.  "It's not a big deal," he adds quickly when Phil's face changes from playful to concerned.  

"First of all, uh, I love you," Ian tells him, and Phil's expression morphs into suspicion. "Just wanted to say that right away."  He swallows.  His throat is dry.  It's like the moisture has been sucked out of the room.  "It's about me and Mickey."

"Mickey," Phil repeats.  "Your high school fuck buddy." 

"Yeah."  Ian laughs nervously.

"Did something happen?" Phil asks sharply.

"No," Ian tells him firmly. "Nothing like that.  I just haven't told you everything about our past."

Phil just stares at him.

"He was actually my first real boyfriend," Ian says nervously.

"And you're just telling me this now?"  Phil seems a little annoyed, a little confused.  "What about that firefighter you dated?"

"Guess he would be my second."

Phil processes this for a beat.

"How long were you together?" he asks finally.

Ian has to think about that one for a minute.

"Like three years. On and off."

Phil whistles lowly.  

"So why didn't this come up on like... the third date when we talked about our past relationships?" 

"I didn't want to bury you under my heavy baggage."  He doesn't want to bury _either_ of them under his heavy baggage. He already feels like he's suffocating, and they haven't even really gotten started.

"I told you about my college boyfriend who stalked me for a semester after I dumped him!"

Ian snorts, then immediately regrets it when Phil's face falls. He doesn't mean to be flippant about Phil's past, but avoiding some over eager freshman in the dining hall for a few months is  _nothing_ comparedto what Ian has gone through with Mickey.

"I'm so sorry," he says quickly.  "It's just- you don't understand." 

 "So make me understand then, Ian, because I'm not fucking getting it." Phil's more hurt by Ian's earlier response than angry, and that knowledge helps Ian continue on.

"I told you before that Mickey was closeted. You know what sort of neighborhood we grew up in. "

" _You_ made it."

"Yeah, well I didn't have the devil incarnate for a father."  Frank is a shitty person, but he isn't Terry Milkovich.  "We had to sneak around because of Mickey's dad. Got caught a couple times by some people."  He pauses.  "Mickey went to juvie twice to wait it out in case Terry found out."

"Why'd he keep doing it then? If he was so scared of his dad?" 

It's a fair question, and something Ian hadn't really bothered to analyze while in the thick of things.  Mickey had been so terrified of Terry finding out that he'd literally locked himself up to protect himself. So why did he keep coming back?  

Ian swallows.

"He loved me.  He wanted to be with me more." 

They're both silent as they mull this over.

"So where'd the kid come from?  Were you like his side piece while he dated Svetlana?" Phil asks finally.

Ian shakes his head.

"I slept over at Mickey's house one night.  Terry came home and caught us.  He- beat the shit out of Mickey and then made me watch while Svetlana fucked him."

Phil's mouth drops open in utter shock.

"Holy shit, that's awful," he says after a beat.  He reaches for Ian's hand, the first contact they've had since sitting down.  Ian's hand feels clammy compared to Phil's warm, dry one. 

"Anyway," Ian continues hollowly, "Terry made them get married and nine months later..." 

"Jesus," Phil breathes, squeezing Ian's hand.  "I'm sorry."

Ian nods. Then shrugs.   

"Wish you would have told me," Phil murmurs to him.  "I would have understood.  No reason for you have to keep that to yourself." 

"There's more."

Phil says nothing. Ian might be imagining it, but he swears Phil's hand loosens its grip on Ian's.

This next part is the shittiest for Ian. Almost as bad as the memory of the defeated look on Mickey's battered face.

"You know how I told you I've been diagnosed bipolar since I was 18?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I couldn't handle it when Mickey got married so I got this idea to steal Lip's identity and join the army.  Had my first manic episode, went AWOL." He waves a hand in the air, leaving out the stolen helicopter bit.  It's not totally necessary to the story, he tells himself.

Phil's eyebrows shoot to his hairline. He's making that face people make when they hear the words "mental illness ". A mixture of shock, fear, and discomfort. 

"I told you a little about when I danced for a while at some gay clubs and did shit for drugs?  Well, this was then. Mickey found me and brought me home and we started up again."

"What about his dad? And his kid?"

"Mickey came out to his dad at the Alibi after Yev's christening."

Phil releases Ian's hand and leans back in his chair.  He blows out a breath of air.

"Can't imagine that went well."

"Nope.  But Terry ended up getting arrested, so...  Anyway, we lived together for a while."

"You and Mickey?"

"And Svet and Yev."

Phil inhales sharply through his nose.

"So you like, raised his kid?  You were his other dad?"  

Of all the things Ian has told him, Phil seems to be having the hardest time with this one.

"We didn't really define it like that," Ian hedges. 

Phil stares directly into Ian's eyes for several seconds, his face difficult to read.  It feels like hours. Ian struggles not to look away and stare into his water glass. He keeps talking.

"I was manic for most of the time we were _together_ together.  I didn't know it yet.  Mickey was suspicious, but..." He trails off.  "He didn't want to admit it until it got bad enough."

"What did you do?" Phil asks tightly, eyes wide.

This is what Ian has been afraid of.  The judgement, the fear he can see in Phil's eyes.

"I... cheated on him.  But I told him about it afterwards."  It's some tiny version of the truth, anyway. He doesn't share how many times it happened.  

No way he's telling Phil about the porno. He files that away next to the helicopter deep in his mind. 

Ian swipes both hands down his face.  He looks back at Phil with effort.  Phil, to his credit, doesn't look like he's quite heading for the hills yet.

Fatigue is starting to take over Ian's body. 

"He told me I needed to get some help, so I panicked and took Yevgeny."

"You _kidnapped_ his kid?" Phil practically shouts incredulously.

"No! I just wanted to take him to see the ocean!"  Ian's voice rises defensively.

"Ian, we live in Chicago!"

"Well I guess it would've been a long fucking drive!" Ian snaps.  

Phil's lips quirk.  

"So he broke up with you because you borrowed his kid," Phil guesses reasonably.

"No.  He had me committed."

Ian knows it isn't exactly true, that technically he signed the papers, but he's always felt a little duped by it if he's honest with himself.  Not just by Mickey, but Lip and Fiona and Debbie and Carl too.  

He knows it was for the best.  Really, he does.

"We tried to stay together for a while after I got out.  But we weren't the same people anymore."

Military Prison.  He hasn't told him about Military Prison.  Where his siblings looked at him like he would be a lifelong burden to them, where Mickey's heart was breaking before Ian's eyes, where Monica had told him he didn't need that in his life to be happy.

Where he'd made the decision to run again, and then the decision to let Mickey go. 

He needs to go to sleep. 

"So that's it," Phil says a little sardonically after a long bout of silence.

Ian sighs.

"Yeah, that's it."  

Phil has more questions, Ian can tell by  the way his eyes are searching back and forth.  Anger and hurt are hiding just below the surface too.

Ian's watch beeps.

"Meds," Ian says to Phil, getting up from the table. 

He hasn't eaten any supper.  He'll pay for that later.  

Phil follows him to the bathroom.

"So, seeing him again brought all this shit back up, huh?"

Ian uncaps each bottle and takes one pill from each.   _One, two, three_ he counts, an obsessive habit he can't break.

 "Guess so."  

"Why didn't you tell me?" Phil asks again a little accusingly.  He shifts his weight.

Ian finally turns to him after washing down his pills.

"I didn't want you to think less of me," he tells him honestly.

"I think less of you _because_ you didn't tell me!"

 Ian reaches out to grip Phil's shoulder, and, surprisingly, Phil allows the contact. 

"I didn't mean for this to happen."

"What do you mean? Like if you hadn't run into Mickey you'd never have said anything?"

Honestly, probably. 

Ian can only shrug. 

Phil turns and walks away.  Ian listens to him stomp through the short hallway to the couch in the living room. 

Ian eventually follows him.

"I'm gonna give you some space," he tells Phil.  Phil keeps one eye on the sports commentary but does acknowledge Ian's presence with a sharp, short nod.

Ian knows he's extremely lucky.  Phil hasn't kicked Ian out or stormed out himself.  He hasn't even really shouted. Phil's a genuinely decent guy.

Ian, in contrast, is kind of a shitty person.  

"I'll be in bed," Ian tells him.

Phil says nothing.

Ian hesitates before turning away.  He feels like he needs to warn him about what might be coming.

"Just- call Fiona tomorrow, if you need to."

Phil shoots Ian a confused glare.

Ian doesn't clarify.  He drags himself to bed.

When his alarm goes off the next morning, he doesn't even bother opening his eyes.  He silences the phone and curls back under the covers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Ian
> 
> Allow me to preemptively explain myself: Mickey isn't really the one that triggers Ian, Ian triggers Ian. Note Ian's reluctance to "go there" with some of the mistakes he's made that are all on him or that make him look really bad (he doesn't mention "forcing" Mickey to come out, the helicopter, downplays his cheating, doesn't mention prison, doesn't really take blame for the breakup etc.). So when it seems that Ian's been trying to shut Mickey out of his mind all these years, Mickey is really just a casualty in this. Ian still doesn't totally realize it yet, but he's been trying to protect himself from himself, and thinking of Mickey (because he was such a crucial player during this time) brings all that to the surface.
> 
> I also want to be clear that this is NOT an "Ian goes crazy again" fic. He's just experiencing a depressive phase that is softened (and shortened) by his meds. It happens to him sometimes, just like he can feel his mania simmering below the surface. 
> 
> Are we still on the same page here? Am I on an island? I'm nervous.
> 
> That note was as long as the chapter. Whew.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy one month anniversary to this fic! We're nearly there, people!

Ian: mid July

* * *

Someone is calling his name. They're very far away and he feels too weak and tired to reply. 

"Ian," the voice calls again, closer this time.  Ian recognizes it. He swims through molasses toward it.

He isn't supposed to do this anymore.

He opens his eyes and Fiona is crouching over him, eyes wide and face white. 

"Ian," she says in that same calm voice.  "How are you feeling?"

He lifts up a lead filled hand to his face and rubs at his eyes.

"How long?" he manages to croak.  Someone thrusts a glass of water with a straw into Fiona's hand, then quickly backs away.  Ian can't process fast enough.

Fiona brings the water right up to his lips. He sucks with effort, but when the cold water hits his throat he feels a tiny bit clearer.

"About fourteen hours since Phil tried to get you up this morning," Fiona tells him.  "Not so bad, huh?"  

That's actually his new record for coming out of the fog.  

"I think," he says slowly, rolling the words around on his tongue, "I just needed to sleep."

"Yeah, maybe," Fiona says vaguely.  "Do you remember anything?" 

He searches his mind.  Phil attempting to shake him awake once, twice, three times.  Swallowing his meds.  Sitting down to pee like a girl. Carl?

"Was Carl here?"

"Lip and me were at work, couldn't get here fast enough.  Carl says he got you to take your meds." 

"I remember that." 

"Good," Fiona says encouragingly.  "Ian, that's so good."

She's legitimately proud of him for being a depressed lump for less than 24 hours. Ian feels like throwing up.

"How long have you been feelin' low?" she asks him.

"Couple weeks maybe."

Fiona nods. She stretches out from her crouched position on the floor and sits on the edge of the bed.

"Phil said you warned him this was going to happen." 

Ian sighs.  He rolls back onto his stomach. 

"Had a feeling," he mumbles into his pillow. 

"You gonna elaborate?" Fiona asks after a beat. 

Ian says nothing. 

"I'll bring you some supper, okay?" 

"Time is it?" Ian groans, emerging for air.  He doesn't feel that hungry but he knows he'll have to force something down. 

"Around six."  

"Shit. Work," Ian groans.  He's worked hard to keep the "mental illness" target small on his back and now that's probably all for naught.

"I had Phil call in this morning.  You have the stomach flu.  You'll be out for a few days." 

Ian nods his thanks.  

Fiona runs a hand through Ian's hair and gets off the bed, heading to the kitchen.

Phil enters in her place.

The urge to turn his body away and bury under the covers is strong, but he compromises by tugging the comforter up to his nose and closing his eyes.

"Is this what it's like?" Phil asks.

Ian doesn't respond.

"You've just been laying there silently since this morning. Talk to me," Phil pleads. 

"You gonna yell at me?" Ian mumbles from his protected position under the blanket.

"What- you mean about last night?  Eventually, yeah, but I'd rather you be upright and stable first." 

Inwardly, Ian groans.

"Give me til tomorrow then."

"Okay," Phil says, sighing.  "Okay."   

Phil is still standing there in the middle of the room, but the sudden need to pee takes over the desire to stay in bed.  Ian rolls onto his stomach, pushes himself up with his elbows, and then onto his knees.

"Gotta pee," he tells Phil as Phil moves to hover by his shoulder. 

"Need help?" 

Ian swats, a little uncoordinated, at the hand that is steadying his elbow but doesn't verbally respond.  He shuffles to the bathroom and leans heavily on the door when he closes it behind him.

He does his business, then shuffles back into bed.  Phil is gone from the room and he can hear murmuring voices in the kitchen.

He grabs for his phone, which is still sitting where he left it on the bedside table at three AM.  He's missed several calls from work, a few from Fiona and Lip. A couple texts from coworkers asking if he's okay. And one text from Mickey, sent three hours ago:

_knock knock_

Ian's chest tightens and the back of his eyes sting. 

When Ian was just coming out of his weeklong bed-ridden depression ten years ago, Mickey had brought in this old dusty joke book he'd found under Iggy's bed.  He had read joke after joke, bitching so much about how fucking stupid they were that Ian had ended up just laughing at Mickey's antics.  Mickey had beamed at him, and Ian knew then that he was hamming it up a bit to make Ian light up again. 

Carl must have told Mickey about him.  Fuck.  

God, he hopes Mickey didn't come with Carl today.

 _who's there?_ he texts back.  He holds his phone in his lap and closes his eyes while he waits.  A few minutes later, his phone buzzes.

_a broken pencil_

Ian's a little ashamed by how quickly he texts back to hear the punchline of a stupid knock knock joke.

_a broken pencil who?_

This time, Mickey's response comes within less than a minute.

_never mind it's pointless_

Ian snorts.

 _I told Phil_ , Ian starts to write, then deletes it. That makes it look like telling Phil is the reason Ian is laid up.  It's sort of true, but he doesn't need to look any more weak than he already does. Finally, he settles for _thanks_. 

Ian waits a few more minutes but Mickey doesn't text back. 

As Ian's setting his phone down, Fiona comes back into the room with a tray. 

"You have fuck all for food in your apartment," Fiona scolds him.  "Sent Phil out for some groceries.  Think he needed a breather anyway."  She sets the tray on the bed next to Ian and they stare at the measly options.

Some leftover spaghetti Phil must have put away after Ian went to bed last night, two restaurant packages of saltine crackers, a nearly brown banana and a glass of orange juice. 

Ian chooses the juice and crackers and Fiona sets the tray down on the floor and settles in next to Ian against the headboard, legs over top of the covers.

"Phil told me a little about what happened last night," Fiona starts. "You ready to fill in some details?" 

"Maybe tomorrow."

"Or maybe right now," Fiona insists.  "Phil's freakin' out, and for good reason!"

"Yeah."  Ian scrubs a hand over his bleary eyes.

"What were you thinkin'?"  Her tone isn't accusatory, just puzzled.

"That I didn't wanna hide the truth anymore."

"Not- no.  I mean what were you thinkin' not tellin' him in the first place?" 

He swallows a sip of orange juice to stall.  "Didn't want to scare him off, maybe."

"I don't think that's it.  I think you're too afraid to deal with your shit." 

Ian glances at Fiona, a little surprised she'd called him out so succinctly.

"Gallagher family trait, Ian.  Took me a long time to take responsibility for what happened to Liam with the coke.  Lip's still in denial about his drinkin'.  Debbie's still running from Frannie. Don't even get me started on Liam."  She laughs.  "Carl's the only one who has his shit together.  Who'd have fuckin' thought that?" 

Ian just shrugs.

"Look, I know it's hard right now, but you'll be glad you told him.  Either he'll get over it and you guys can have everything on the table, or he'll dump ya and you can start to move on."

The casual nature of her tone startles him.  He gapes at her.

"Do you want him to dump you?" Fiona asks lightly.

"No!"

"Just checkin'. Hey, you can't blame me for wonderin'," she says, holding her hands up defensively when Ian glares at her.  "Maybe you want Phil to leave you so you and Mickey can pick up where you left off?"

"No," Ian says again. Truly, the thought had never entered his brain until she mentioned it.   

He hates being alone.

"Good," Fiona says with more feeling.  "Cuz that would be a disaster!"

"It would not," Ian argues defensively on instinct. 

Fiona makes a 'gotcha' face and Ian colors at his slip.  But then her face turns serious again.

"Don't know if Mickey'd be ready for that anyway," she commented, almost to herself.

"What did he tell you, Fi?" Ian asks, as urgently as the words will come out of his mouth.  Fiona runs her hands through her hair.

"Just- that things weren't easy for him." 

Ian swallows.

"Because of me?"

Fiona smiles sadly at him.  She runs a hand through his hair.

"No, sweetie." They sit in silence for a while.  Ian feels exhaustion begin to take over again. 

"Hey, how did Yevgeny come about?" Fiona asks him suddenly, and he jerks awake. "Svetlana told me once to ask you, and then Phil mentioned something about it too."

"She never told you?"

Fiona shakes her head.

He feels like he's talked more about it in the past month than he has in the past ten years.

What's one more person knowing?  He takes a deep breath and pools his energy.

"Terry Milkovich caught me and Mickey together.  He made Svetlana come over and fuck him straight while I watched.  After he beat the shit out of us." 

Fiona doesn't speak for several seconds.  She just gapes, opening and closing her mouth like a fish. 

"I- holy shit." She scrubs her face.  "No wonder Mickey didn't want anythin' to do with Yev."  

"Yeah."  

Fiona's phone buzzes, and she reaches into the back pocket of her shorts to grab it.  "Liam," she says shortly, sighing.

"He still texts?" Ian asks amusedly.

"When he really wants something.  Like supper."  She pushes off the bed and stretches.  "You'll be okay for a while?"

Ian nods.

"Hang in there," she urges him.  "I'll come by tomorrow." 

When she goes, Ian lays there awake under the covers for a long time.

 

The next morning Ian wakes to find Phil standing at the dresser, stepping into basketball shorts.  When Ian shifts onto his back Phil looks up and they make eye contact.

"Hey," Ian says blearily.

"Feeling better?" Phil asks, looking away.

"Not as foggy," Ian admits.  He's hungry too, which is a good sign.

Phil nods, but he's frowning.

"Aren't you going to work?" Ian asks him when he notices how high the sun is already in the sky out the window.

Phil shakes his head.  Ian scowls.

"I don't need a babysitter.  You don't need to hide the knives."

Phil scoffs, then explodes, cold persona gone as anger takes over.

"Everything isn't always about you, you know!  Maybe I'm too messed up to go in." 

"Messed up about..."

"Everything, Ian.  The fact that my live in boyfriend just told me about the most serious, fucked up relationship he had with a guy who just got out of prison for attempted murder!" 

Ian looks down at the comforter.  He traces his finger along the stitching. 

"And the fact," Phil starts again, "that after he told me, he was practically catatonic for a whole day.  Really makes the current boyfriend feel good." 

"It's my disorder!" Ian says defensively.

 Phil shakes his head.

"It's more than that.  You've been different for a while.  Maybe ever since Mickey came back."

Ian can't really deny that.

"Do you still love him, Ian?"  Phil asks, voice softening. 

Ian pauses.

"Think I'll always care about him," Ian answers as honestly as he can. 

Phil nods.  Takes a deep breath.  He was expecting that answer.

"I think I can get past this," Phil tells Ian, moving closer to the bed. "If you want me to." 

"What do you mean?" 

Phil hesitates, then lays it on the line.

"Do you want to break up?"

"No!" Ian insists, panic rising in his throat.  "Do you?" 

"No.  But I want to set some ground rules." 

"Okay," Ian agrees.  Phil moves to sit on the edge of the bed.

"I'm not gonna make you stop hanging out with Yev. It's not fair to him, and I get that.  But I don't want you to see Mickey."

Ian scoffs.

"That's impossible. He's like family.  We just celebrated Fourth of July together."

Phil's jaw drops.  His voice rises again.

"So instead of coming to the suburbs with me to see my family you hung out with _Mickey_?"

"I stayed with my _family_.  Mickey and Svetlana and Yev are family."

"So future Christmases, Thanksgivings, birthdays, all of them will have Mickey there."

That might be an over exaggeration.  Svetlana and Yevgeny weren't always hanging around before Mickey got out, so he doubts they'll do it more so now that Mickey's around.  

Ian shrugs.

"I am _not_ okay with that," Phil insists.

"You hang out with your ex all the time!" Ian cries.

"I work with the guy!  I don't have a choice."

"Yeah, well I'm saying neither do I.  What, do I start telling Fiona and Carl they've gotta choose between me or them?"

"Sounds like you're choosing between _me_ and _him_ right now," Phil yells.

"Fuck, Phil-" Ian tugs at his hair in agitation.

"I get it," Phil interrupts.   "How can I even begin to compete with someone you share that kind of a history with?"

"There's no god damn competition!  He's not even interested in me," Ian insists.

"And you're not interested in him?" 

"If I wanted to be with him, why would I have bothered to tell you about him?" Ian asks Phil rhetorically.  "I would have just dumped you." 

Phil tilts his head in barely-there concession of that point.

"I'll do whatever you want," Ian tells him, grabbing his hand.  "I won't talk to him.  I'll try to avoid him.  But I can't tell my family to stop seeing him." 

Phil looks a little guilty that he'd even suggested that. He squeezes Ian's hand back.  

"Breakfast?" he asks, changing the subject.  "I'll make eggs."

"Yum," Ian says agreeably.  

The moment Phil's out of the room Ian reaches for his phone.  He quickly deletes the text message conversation, then for good measure, changes the contact name.

 

A week later, and things are less tense but still awkward. Ian's back at work and thankful for it, because it keeps him busy and unable to think of other things. 

He and Phil are at a bit of a stalemate.  Neither of them have mentioned Ian's revelation.  They talk about the weather constantly.

The first time they fuck is painfully awkward.  Like they need to get to know each other's bodies all over again.  

"What was the sex like with him?" Phil asks abruptly when they're laying next to one another afterwards.

"Seriously?" Ian sputters. "Way to ruin the afterglow."

"He seems like a top," Phil muses.  

"Yeah, well."  Ian doesn't even know what to say to that.  Phil doesn't press the issue.

"Were you really into that kinky shit he joked about?"

"Oh my God," Ian moans.  "No! We did regular sex shit."  Well, pretty regular anyway.  Mickey was willing to try anything once.

Ian's phone buzzes and that exact moment and he thanks fuck for that.  He stares down at the message in pleased surprise.  It's from Mandy.

_In town for a few weeks. Wanna catch up?_

Ian grins down at his phone.

 _Definitely_ , he responds.   _I'm off at 5 this week. Let's do dinner._

Ian hasn't seen Mandy in three years, when she returned to Chicago for her father's funeral, heavily pregnant with her second baby. 

"Who're you smiling at?"Phil asks casually.

"My friend Mandy is in town.  I told you about her, remember?"

 "Yeah, your high school beard?  Hey, you got some dark secret to reveal about her too?" he jokes.

Ian freezes.

Fuck. One more thing he's gotta fess up to.

"Actually..." Ian laughs nervously.

Phil gapes. 

"She's Mickey's sister," Ian tells Phil quickly.  "That's how me and Mickey met."  

"Oh my God," Phil moans, scrubbing his hands over his face. "It's like a never ending nightmare!"

"Least I told you about her," Ian cajoles. 

"Small miracles," Phil deadpans.

" _Come to my apartment for dinner tomorrow_ ," Ian reads aloud as he texts Mandy.  "That way you can meet her," he tells Phil when he hits send.

"Won't that be weird? You're dating someone else who isn't her brother."

"Mandy isn't like that.  She doesn't care."

Phil raises doubtful eyebrows, but doesn't argue.

 

Ian can't sit still the next day after work. He paces back and forth and rearranges the couch pillows, then checks on the chicken Phil put in the crock pot that morning.  He can't tell if it's done or not, but it smells good.

"Relax," Phil orders him when he comes out of the bedroom changed out of his dress shirt and slacks. He's wearing his usual grungy after-work outfit.

"Dunno why I'm nervous," Ian admits.  "It's just Mandy."

On cue, there's a loud rap on the front door.  Ian bolts for it.

"Mandy," he breathes when he swings the door open.  She's standing in front of him with her familiar crinkly eyed smile.  Her hair is back to its natural dark color and she's as thin as she ever was.  She's dressed similarly, too, in ripped denim shorts and a black band t-shirt.  

But she's older in the face and her features seem somehow less sharp, more relaxed.  Ian supposed motherhood has softened her a bit.

They hug for a long time. 

"Nice place," she says when they part.  "Know anyone in the building who's out of town this week?"

Ian laughs out loud. 

"This is Phil," Ian says, and Phil moves forward to shake Mandy's hand.  Mandy gives Ian a mischievous sideways glance as they grip hands.

"Your boyfriend has the same name as your brother," she informs him.

God, it's good to see her.

Chatting with Mandy has always been easy.  Even Phil seems relaxed as Mandy tells them about her idiot husband and her crazy kids and how she never thought she'd be a stay at home mom, but she wouldn't make enough to pay for daycare.

Mandy only brings up Mickey once, to explain that she's in town to see her shithead brother now that he's out.   

Phil excuses himself after an hour and a half, and goes into the bedroom to watch baseball so Ian and Mandy can talk.  Ian gives his hand a grateful squeeze before he walks away.

"Got somewhere I can smoke?" Mandy asks immediately after Phil disappears. 

"Let's go out on the patio."  He leads her onto their tiny outdoor space and they lounge on the patio chairs while Mandy lights up.

"So Phil," Mandy drawls, "how long's it been?"

"Almost two years," Ian tells her. 

Mandy blows out smoke in a snarl.

"You don't like him?" Ian wonders, surprised. 

"Eh," says Mandy noncomittally.  "Not really who I thought you'd do forever with. Speaking of, are wedding bells in your future?"

"No," Ian laughs. "Marriage is not for me."

"Didn't think it'd be for me either," Mandy admits.  "But look at me now."  She waggles her tiny diamond ring in Ian's face.

"Still can't believe you didn't invite me," Ian pouts.  "I would've made a good man of honor." 

"It was just a courthouse thing.  Didn't want to make it big since Mickey couldn't be there." 

Ian winces.  If Mandy notices, she doesn't comment.  Instead she searches in vain for an ashtray, then settles for tossing her spent cigarette over the edge of the railing. 

"So are you like, a soccer mom now?" Ian teases.

"Fuck you, never," Mandy yelps, swatting him.  "Both my kids have the same dad.  That's about as soccer mom as it gets."

"I can't believe it," Ian admits.

"What, that I don't have a passel of brats with different baby daddies?" She swats him again.

"No, that we're here.  Out of Southside.  You especially."

"I got lucky," Mandy agrees a little wistfully.  "Some days I didn't think I'd make it to thirty.  Now I'm gonna be a grandma someday."   

"You deserve it," Ian insists.  

This Mandy in front of him is a far cry from the woman who only seven or so years ago was a hired escort.  A far cry from the teenager desperate to be loved and looking for it from assholes like Kenyatta.  Or Lip.

She'd met Mark at a bar, and he'd taken her home that night and she never left.  He was a single parent to a seven year old girl, floundering a little with a dead end job and parenting on his own.  

She moved with him out of Chicago two months later and never looked back.  

"What about you?" Mandy is asking him. "You feel fulfilled and all that?"

"Yeah," Ian answers quickly.  "I love my job and Phil's great.  Managing my meds.  Everything's great."

"Great," Mandy repeats back a little sardonically.  "You gonna tell me what's really up now?"  

Ian swallows.

"Just had a little setback recently.  Stayed in bed a few days."

Mandy raises her eyebrows in surprise.

"Meds not working?"

"No, they're good, it's just- there's been some things going on- between me and Phil and... other people."

"Mickey," Mandy guesses.  

"He say something to you?" Ian asks.

Mandy frowns.

"You haven't exactly come up."  

"Really?"  This surprises Ian a little.  Lately Mickey's all Ian can think about.

"Learned my lesson on that one _years_ ago."  Mandy doesn't elaborate further.  

"Oh."

"Want my advice?" she offers lazily.

"Sure."

"Just don't go there again unless you're all in.  I don't think Mickey could take it."  She's utterly casual, but Ian's heart sinks to his stomach. He clears his throat.

"I don't think you have to worry about that.  Mickey's definitely not interested."

Mandy gives him a look. 

"I'm serious! He's seeing someone, anyway."

"So are you," Mandy says pointedly.  "And yet here you are."

"What the fuck are you implying?" Ian snaps, panic rising.  On instinct he looks through the glass doors to see if Phil is nearby.  

"Nothing, I guess," Mandy mutters, rolling her eyes.  "Let's change the fucking subject before I make you look at pictures of my kids out of desperation."

She does end up showing him pictures of her kids. Leah and Marky are spitting images of Mandy and Mickey.  Mandy's stepdaughter Alicia is a leggy, gorgeous teenager.

"We get along okay," Mandy shares.  "She reminds me of me as a teenager."

"That's a little scary," Ian teases. 

"I don't think Mark sleeps at all," Mandy jokes.  "He's got a no boys allowed rule and Alicia hates his guts."  They laugh.  "He's such a good dad."  She smiles happily at a photo of her and Mark together. 

"He come with?"  Ian would like to meet Mark again.  He'd only spent a few minutes with him at Terry's wake. 

"He had to work, and Alicia wanted to stay behind anyway.  Besides, it'd be a tight fit at Mickey and Svet's."

"Yeah," Ian agrees.  He wants to ask Mandy if Mickey and Svetlana still share a bed.  

"Speaking of, I better get back.  Gotta do the bedtime routine."

"Okay," Ian says as they stand.  "Me too, actually."

Mandy laughs.

"Proud of you, Ian," she says to him. 

"Yeah, yeah."

He walks her out and makes her promise to do this again before she leaves.  Then he goes back to the bedroom to tell Phil it's safe to come out.

"She's pretty cool, actually," Phil tells him, a little surprised.

"She's the best," Ian agrees. 

He's let his relationship with Mandy dwindle over the years because he's been so afraid that he wouldn't live up to her expectations of the Ian she knew before his diagnosis. And he's realizing, very belatedly, that it doesn't really matter.  Mandy loves him no matter what.

And Mickey would have too, if Ian had given him the chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Lip


	13. Chapter 13

Lip: early August

* * *

Lip hadn't really ever thought this day would come, to be honest.  Here he was sitting in a stadium while his younger brother, the one who'd once seemed destined to spend most of his adult life behind bars, walked across a stage in a cap and gown. 

Carl complained about having to go through the ceremony, but Fiona had firmly insisted.  

"You'll regret it if you don't," she'd told Carl, glaring Lip's way.  Lip hadn't bothered to walk when he'd finally finished his doctorate.  Didn't see the point.

But he did feel a little wistful as he and all of his siblings cheered for Carl as he moved his tassel from one side of his cap to the other. 

Even Frank let out a shrill whistle in celebration- about as much energy as he could muster from the seat of his stadium wheelchair.  (Lip and Fiona debated letting him come, but they got preferential seating in the handicapped section with him there so it worked out okay). 

Carl had bribed and cheated his way into getting enough tickets for all of them, Debbie included.  She'd come home especially for Carl, and she stood next to Fiona farther down the aisle, gripping Fiona's hand tightly and openly crying with joy. They'd always been close, she and Carl.  Irish twins, just like Lip and Ian.

Ian.  He stood between Lip and Liam, whooping loudly along with the rest of them, looking happy and relaxed for the moment.  He certainly was better now than he was a few weeks ago, when he'd taken a step backward in his constant battle against his disorder.  

Ian had declined Lip's offer to stop by as Ian got back on his feet.  Lip had grilled Fiona about it and she insisted Ian was just embarrassed and didn't want any more attention.  But she'd confided in him that Ian and Phil weren't exactly on great terms at the moment. 

Next to him at the graduation, Ian grinned at Lip when he felt his brother's eyes on him. 

Lip would ask him about it later, before the party.

The next hour and a half was a whirlwind of pictures, errands, and orders from Fiona as she prepared for the graduation party.  Carl declared himself the guest of honor and sat and played video games on the couch like an asshole while Debbie hung streamers and Liam begrudgingly cleared off the kitchen counter.  

Fiona delegated Lip and Ian to be the beer runners, so they hoofed it to the Alibi to load up Kev's trusty truck with a few kegs he was donating as a graduation gift. 

"So what's been going on with you?" Lip asked, seizing his opportunity when they were finally alone walking the well-known path to the Alibi.

Ian smiled.

"Been hanging out with Mandy a little.  She's in town to see Mickey."

Lip's heart always stuttered a little guiltily whenever he thought of Mandy Milkovich, and he tried not to think of her often if he could help it.  

"How's she doing?" he asked, mostly out of politeness.  

"Really great.  You know she's married with kids, right?"

Lip's pretty sure Ian's given him that exact line every time Mandy has come up.

"Think I might've heard something about that," Lip responded tightly.

Ian had always seemed to take Mandy's side during the entire debacle that was their relationship, and even after.  It bothered Lip immensely that Ian didn't share the same intense brotherly protective instinct that Lip had for Ian, at least with Mandy. 

But when it came to the Milkoviches, Ian had always been soft.  

"Fi told me you and Phil are going through a little bit of a rough patch." Lip changed the subject.

Ian paused, face going stony for a beat before his features smoothed.

"We worked through it.  It's all good now," he said casually.  He used his longer legs to his advantage and picked up the pace a little, forcing Lip to put a little more effort into keeping up.  

Passive aggressive asshole.

"Was it because of the bipolar?" Lip pressed, undeterred. 

"No," Ian said shortly.  "I basically just slept in for a day or two.  He was fine with it."

"Fiona said Phil was a little freaked out," Lip disputed evenly.

" _Fiona_ doesn't know what she's talking about," Ian snapped. 

Lip put a hand on Ian's chest, halting his forward movement for a moment so they could look one another in the eye.

"I'm just looking out for you.  Same as you would do for me.  I hope."

Ian's eyes softened.  His shoulders slumped a little.

"I never told Phil about Mickey," he confessed after a beat.  "Finally told him a few weeks ago."

Lip leveled impassive eyes at Ian.

"You knew he didn't know?" Ian asked, eyes wide.

Lip shrugged.

"Didn't go well?" he guessed. 

"He told me I couldn't hang around Mickey anymore."

"Ah, the ultimatum," Lip drawled.  "Always brings relationships closer together."

"Like you would know," Ian snarked.

"So what, you're just going to avoid Mickey like the plague for the rest of your life?"

It wouldn't be totally impossible, Lip surmised.  Ian didn't spend much time Southside these days and Mickey was still a little skittish around Ian as it was.  But they hung out as a group most holidays and other family gatherings.  Lip could forsee some awkward events in his future.  Like tonight.

Ian lifted one shoulder up and down.

"When Phil's around.  Shouldn't be too hard."  His tone was casual, but his furrowed brow said otherwise.

"You know Carl and Mickey are basically best buddies now, right?  Pretty sure Mickey's gonna be at the party tonight. Phil coming?"  

Ian pursed his lips and nodded. 

"Well if things go south you can just come clean with the next guy right away so they know what they're getting into," Lip offered blandly.

Ian stopped dead in his tracks.

"Why do people keep fucking acting like Phil and I aren't going to make it?" he barked.

Lip suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

"Do _you_ think Phil and you are going to make it?" he retorted evenly.

Ian sighed.  "I _do_ love him," he insisted guiltily.

"Yeah well, Catherine loved Edgar," Lip deadpanned.

Ian just blinked at him.  Lip sighed. 

"Y'know, Wuthering Heights? Heathcliff? Emily Bronte? Nothing?"   

Ian shrugged, face blank.

"Wasn't it required reading in high school?" Lip teased.  Ian smirked.

"High school dropout, remember?"  

Actually Lip forgot that a lot, considering he'd always remember the year Ian was diagnosed (for lots of reasons he preferred not to think about if he could help it).  He chalked it up to Ian doing so well these days.

Eh, it wasn't worth explaining.  Wasn't a very flattering reference anyway.

They entered the front door of the bar.  Lip pretended not to notice the way Ian's eyes scanned the bar, or the way his shoulders relaxed when a particular person didn't come into view.

"Hey guys, how'd it go?" Kev greeted them from behind the bar.

"Awesome," Ian told him, grinning.

"Still can't believe it," Lip added.  

"Kegs are in the back.  Only two!" Kev threatened as Lip and Ian headed for the storage room.  "I pulled my truck up in the alley."

"Think we can sneak a few cases too?" Ian asked quietly as they rounded the bar.

"Can't hurt to try."

 

“You gonna take it easy tonight?” Ian murmured to Lip as they carried a keg together from the Alibi to Kev's trusty old truck.

“Jesus, go to rehab one time and I got the booze police on my back for life.”

“Just checkin’ in,” Ian parroted drily to him as they hauled the keg into the truck bed.

Lip snorted. That was something Lip always said to Ian whenever he inquired about how Ian was managing his meds and emotions.

“Touché, brother.”

They paused once back at the entrance into the back of the bar when an old motorcycle pulled up, it's driver revving the motor unnecessarily like an asshole.

Lip ran a hand a little nervously through his hair when he caught sight of its occupants.

Mandy and Mickey Milkovich dismounted the bike and stood together at the mouth of the alley. Mandy took off Mickey's leather jacket she'd been wearing and slung it over the seat of the bike.

Standing next to each other in matching white tank tops with the sun glancing off their equally pale skin and glowing their dark hair nearly purple, the two youngest Milkovich siblings looked almost like two halves of one being.

It was actually sort of beautiful. Lip chanced a glance at Ian beside him and saw the same thoughts reflected on Ian's face.

Mandy looked different than he'd last seen her, but the same too.  Still beautiful, still tall and thin.  Her hair was dark again, and she looked older.  Softer.

The siblings hugged tightly for a long moment, clearly not aware that they were being watched from the doorway.

“Hey,” Ian called a little awkwardly to them as they pulled apart. Mickey and Mandy jerked away from one another as if they'd been caught doing something wrong.  Mandy hurried to wipe at her cheeks.

Mickey raised bloodshot eyes to Ian's face and snarled, taking one threatening step forward.

Lip’s instincts instantly rose to the surface and he took one jerky step to angle his shoulder in front of his much bigger, buffer younger brother. But Ian, who had long ago grown used to the Milkoviches’ particular brand of bark and bite, only frowned and made to move toward them.

“Get on the bike, Gallagher,” Mickey ordered, throwing off the hand Mandy attempted to lay on his arm.

“Mickey, what-” Ian started.

“Get on the fucking bike, Gallagher," he demanded again, voice rising.

“Mandy-” Ian tried for the other sibling but was interrupted by a shout and a slam as Iggy Milkovich hopped out of a still-moving car at the other end of the alley and started hustling his way toward them.

"Ian," Lip warned sharply.

The car screeched to a halt in a parking spot fifty feet away and Joey Milkovich hopped out, diving into the backseat and emerging with a baseball bat.

“Jesus, go!” Mandy cried, darting forward and pushing Ian toward Mickey and his bike. Mickey was already throwing a leg over and starting it up.

“Yo, Gallagher!” Iggy shouted menacingly.

Ian's stupid brain finally decided to kick in, evidently determining that hashing whatever it was out with Mickey away from here was much preferable to getting his ass beat by two much bigger Milkoviches with a baseball bat.

He threw himself behind Mickey on the bike and had barely hitched his leg over before Mickey kicked the stand up and took off, Ian scrabbling at Mickey's waist for purchase to keep from being thrown off.

“What the fuck!” Iggy and Lip cried in unison.

“Why are you guys after my brother?" Lip questioned angrily as Joey Milkovich took the taillight out of a nearby car in frustration.

The two much fairer Milkovich men looked equally as torn up as Mandy and Mickey had.  Lip hadn't even known they were capable of such emotional range.

“Mickey’ll handle it,” Joey assured Iggy. The act of vandalism on the random car seemed to have dissipated his rage instantly.

“Like fuck he will,” Iggy seethed. “Gallagher'll give him those puppy eyes and he'll fold like a little pussy.”

“Then we'll get him some other time,” the other man encouraged. “Cmon, let's go get high. I'm too sober to deal with this shit.”

“Been wanting to kick Ian's ass for nine fuckin’ years,” Iggy grumbled.

“You coming Mandy?” Joey offered.

“Nah. Gotta round up the kids and get on the road.” She tightly embraced each of her brothers in turn.  Lip inspected the graffiti on the brick wall, ignoring the strangely intimate moment as best he could. “See ya in a few months, shitheads," she told them affectionately.

The men ambled back to their car, never even sparing Lip a glance. He didn't mind one bit.

“What was that all about?” Lip asked, pulling a cigarette from the package in his shirt pocket and lightning it. Mandy plucked it from his lips and took her own drag, smirking.

“We all went to visit our mom and dad where they're buried,” Mandy said after her exhale, looking away from Lip’s gaze.  "Well, minus Jamie.  He's still locked up.  I- told them about what happened. With me and my dad.”  She sniffed.

Lip raised incredulous brows even as his heart sunk to his stomach.

“You mean they still didn't know?” he asked, gentling his tone.

“I thought they did!" Mandy insisted guiltily.  "I figured Ian would've told Mick, anyway.”

“Ah,” said Lip. “They're pissed Ian never said anything.”

“Not sure why he didn't.”  She sniffed again, then visibly steeled herself.

“Yeah well, Ian's good at keeping secrets," Lip observed.

“You can say that again.”

“Yeah well, Ian's good at keeping secrets,” Lip deadpanned, earning a huff of laughter and a smack on the arm. “Should I be worried?” he asked her.

“What, about him and Mickey? Whatever they get into I'm sure they both deserve.”  She rolled her eyes.

Lip figured that was probably true, but he took out his phone to text Ian just in case.   _everything okay?_

For a kid who had just dumped his first love, Ian had moved on pretty quickly from Mickey.  It must have been hell for Mickey, suddenly dumped and all alone in prison.  Lip surprised himself a little for feeling suddenly sympathetic toward the guy.

Lip had never thought too much of Ian and Mickey's relationship in the beginning- in fact, he'd been downright against it and told Ian so-, but it had been clear in the end that Mickey was all in. He probably didn't deserve to be dumped on his ass the way he had.

Now though, from what little Lip had seen of him, it sort of seemed Mickey had miraculously come away from prison an all around better person, a proverbial phoenix rising from the ashes, if he wanted to get poetic about it. Who'd have thought? 

Mandy, too, had changed for the better over time. Lip could see it in her face, the way she carried herself.  She didn't look at him like he'd shattered her heart into a million pieces anymore.

“Glad I got to see you again,” he told her genuinely. “You seem… really good.”

“I am,” she agreed, smiling softly. “Didn't think I'd ever really feel that way.”

"Your husband-"

"Mark," she supplied.

"He treat you right?"

"Yeah, he does.  I don't deserve it sometimes," she laughed.

"You do," Lip insisted, meaning it.

This version of Mandy, this calm, confident woman standing next to him, was only who she was now because of the path her life had taken. Maybe Lip on his own wouldn't have been able to bring her here, but for a moment Lip let himself wonder what it might have been like if they'd stayed together.

Maybe with her pushing him he wouldn't have failed so spectacularly at college the first time. Maybe he'd have avoided his addiction issues and it would be the two of them who shared kids instead of Mandy and this Mark guy.

But then there was Karen. Lip couldn't think of Mandy without thinking of Karen too. He'd never forget what she did. Never.  But he could try to forgive her. 

“Get out of your head,” Mandy chastised him softly, bringing him back.  Judging by the look on her face, she knew where he'd been.

“Sorry.” They smiled at each other again, then Mandy bent to stub out the cigarette and stood back up, suddenly businesslike.

“I'm gonna go round up the kids. Yevgeny's probably taught them how to swear in Russian by now.”

Lip laughed with her as the two of them entered the bar together through the alley entrance.

The door to the upstairs apartment stood ajar. Shrieks and stomping punctuated by Svetlana's occasional sharp reprimands could be heard at the top of the stairs.

“Kids!” Mandy bellowed from the bottom. “Time to go!”

Shrieks led to groans.

“You think you'll have any more?” Lip asked her. He sort of wished he'd had the chance to see what she'd looked like pregnant.

“No,” Mandy said firmly. “This babymaker is closed indefinitely. Being pregnant is fucking awful. Wouldn't have done it the second time if it hadn't been a happy accident. I can't believe Svet's going to do it again.”

“Another surrogacy?” Lip asked mildly.

Mandy balked.

“Shit," she breathed.  Clearly it was still a secret.  Maybe a dirty little secret.

Lip chuckled.

“So, _not_ another surrogacy. Does Mickey know?”

Mandy suddenly found the floor extremely interesting.

Lip’s mouth fell open in shock when his brain caught up.

“They're having another baby _together_?”

“You can't tell anyone!” Mandy pled, gripping Lip’s elbow. “Svet only just found out a few weeks ago and they're waiting for a while to tell people.”

"Holy shit.  Why the fuck would they want to do that? Didn't Svetlana learn the first time?"

Mandy's face darkened, and she instantly looked more like the teenager he remembered.

"What the fuck are you saying?" she demanded.

"That Mickey's a shitty father, obviously," Lip scoffed.

"You have no fucking idea what you're talking about," she sneered. 

"I know that a few visits a month from behind bullet proof glass doesn't exactly make someone dad of the year."  

"Well he's out now!  And things are different this time around!"

"We'll see," Lip intoned.

Mandy flashed him a deadly glare.

"If I find out you told anyone before Svetlana can announce it, I'll sic my brothers on you.  And they'll bring more than just a baseball bat next time." 

Lip took a passive step back, raising his hands in surrender.

"Relax, I don't give enough of a shit to spill the beans.  It has no bearing on my life whether or not Mickey fucks up another kid."  

Mandy digested this, then flushed guiltily.

"Sorry," she muttered.  "I can get a little attack dog about my family."  

She'd never before been quick to defend Mickey, but Lip suspected the time Mickey had spent in prison had done things to the siblings' relationship that had brought them closer, or at least made Mandy more protective of her brother.  Lip could understand that.  It was obvious, based on his Fourth of July freak out, that Mickey had been through some fucked up shit while in the can.

"Don't worry about it," Lip placated.

"I better go see what the hell is taking so long," she told him, putting one foot on the stairs.

"Yeah.  I gotta get back to it too."  He gestured vaguely in the direction of the alley.  He wondered if he'd be able to easily lift the keg into the truck now that the brawn of their duo had ridden off into the sunset. 

"Okay," Mandy said, a little awkwardly.  "Great to see you."

"Yeah," he agreed.  "You too."

She gave him one last small smile, then thundered up the steps.

Lip turned back into the storeroom and lugged another keg onto a dolly.

He'd told Mandy he didn't care about Svetlana and Mickey having another baby, and objectively he didn't, but he wondered if Ian would.  

Maybe.  It was obvious that things were a lot more complicated when it came to the Ian-Mickey-Phil situation than Ian was letting on.  And it hurt Lip to know that Ian wasn't fully confiding in him.  

If Ian did care, Lip decided, he'd let Svetlana and Mickey be the bad guys on this one.  He'd be there to pick up the pieces if necessary, but there was no reason for Lip to upset the precarious balance of Ian's life anymore than he had to.  

He wondered how it was going, wherever Mickey had taken Ian.  Maybe Lip should have put up more of a fight against Mickey.

He hoped they weren't killing each other, but it was out of his hands now.

 Several hours later, when he'd long since returned to the house and the party had already begun (Lip told Phil that Ian had to go pick up Carl's surprise present and then poured him a series of heavy handed drinks) he got a text back from Ian:  _we're_ _good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Ian
> 
> Lip's Wuthering Heights reference- the extreme cliffs notes version for those of you who haven't read it: Heathcliff and Catherine were star crossed lovers, Catherine married Edgar and Heatchliff was vengeful and jealous about it. Catherine did love Edgar, in her way, (or at least what he could provide her) but she didn't exactly treat him right. SPOILER ALERT- it's not a happy ending, but still worth the read.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief references to Mandy's rape in this one. Read safely, friends.

Ian: early August

* * *

Ian grips Mickey's waist as they zoom through the neighborhood.  He knows where they're headed: Mickey's usual freak out spot, the abandoned buildings.

He racks his brain for the reason the Milkovich men could be so furious with him.  Iggy and Joey had looked like they were out for blood.  And Ian can feel the tension radiating through Mickey as they ride nearly plastered together on the motorcycle.  (It's the closest he's been to Mickey since the night Ian was arrested by the milirary police all those years ago.)

Like a light bulb suddenly coming on, it clicks.

Mandy.

And Terry.

The rape.  The pregnancy.  The abortion.

Fuck.

He tries to spend the rest of the short ride collecting his thoughts, but he doesn't get very far.  Mickey screeches to a halt in front of the cluster of buildings and nearly throws both of them off in his haste.

"You trying to kill us?" Ian barks as he collides hard with Mickey and catches himself awkwardly.

"Just you," Mickey snaps back as they get off the bike.

"Mickey, I-"

"How could you not fucking tell me?" Mickey interrupts.  

"It wasn't my secret to tell!" Ian cries.

"Bullshit!" Mickey jabs his finger at Ian.  "When it comes to important shit like that, you tell someone!  Jesus, Ian, I knew you kept shit from me, but not shit like _that_."

Ian feels tears prick his eyes.  This is probably the first time since he's been back that Mickey's called Ian by his first name, and it's when he's angry and hurt.  

And he has every right to be, he does, but Ian had his reasons too.

"I was looking out for Mandy.  She just wanted to move on from it.  It was fucking traumatizing enough for her." 

Mickey huffs out an angry laugh.  

"She still had to live with him!  She still had to look at his face every fucking day after that." 

Ian knows, looking into Mickey's  torn up face, that there's deeper meaning behind those words, even if Mickey himself isn't aware of it.  

Mickey had to live with Terry too, after what happened to him.

Ian failed both of them.  Somehow, he did.  Maybe for not paying enough attention to what was going on with Mandy back then.  Definitely for not staying by Mickey's side when he probably needed him most.

"I woulda killed him," Mickey says quietly, pulling Ian out of his own head.  

"I know," Ian agrees.  He does know, without a doubt, that Mickey would have.  He couldn't do it for himself, but for Mandy he would have.  "And I didn't want to lose you." 

Mickey snorts derisively.

"Can't fight fate," he deadpans.  "Woulda got me some other way- _did_ get me."  Then he sighs and runs both hands down his face.  When he pulls them away his eyes are damp.

Ian swallows the lump in his throat and looks down at the ground.

"I'm really sorry.  It was selfish of me."

He knows it's not a good enough apology.    He's never been great with words. 

Mickey looks into the distance and says nothing.

"I think I've been selfish for a long time. There's a lot of shit I haven't-"  He stops to compose himself.  He doesn't know how to say what he needs to say to him.  "I think I might be kinda fucked up.  And not like, the bipolar shit.  The real me."

Mickey is looking at him again, concern overpowering the anger.  But he still doesn't speak.  Ian pushes forward.

"I thought I needed something new, when you and me-when we-"

"Broke up," Mickey supplies impassively when Ian flounders awkwardly.  "You can say it."  

Ian doesn't want to say the words.  They feel like poison on his tongue. 

"The other guys I've dated, I never told them about you because I was embarrassed," Ian admits. 

Mickey abruptly turns away, putting a few paces between them.  

"Not about you!" Ian hastens to explain, hurrying after him. He's doing a really shitty job of explaining himself today.  "Because of me!  I was afraid of what they'd think of me."

Mickey looks entirely unconvinced. 

"I wanted to be the good guy.  But I wasn't.  Pretty sure I probably treated you like shit."

Mickey grimaces.

"I coulda treated you better too," Mickey argues weakly.  "Wasn't just you."

Ian huffs in annoyance.  For once he's ready for all the heat to be on him and Mickey wants to share the flames.

"Don't do that!  Don't try to- I'm trying to take responsibility here."

Mickey smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"This the old, 'it's not you, it's me' thing, huh?"

Ian blinks.

"Yeah," he says softly. "Guess so.  Should've said it then, instead of whatever bullshit I probably threw at you." 

Mickey nods once in acknowledgement but still looks tense.

"So can you forgive me?" Ian presses.  Mickey rubs his lips.  Ian holds his breath.  

"Yeah," Mickey says a little unconvincingly, but Ian'll take it, for now.  "Guess so.  Forgiveness is the first step toward healing or some shit, right?" He smirks to himself, his own private joke.

"Where'd you learn that line?"  Every once in a while Mickey's been spouting off sayings that sound like they come from a self help book.

"Just something my counselor used to tell me all the time.  Annoying as fuck, but I guess it's sorta true, right?"  Mickey shrugs.

"Counselor?" Ian repeats, baffled.  So that explains the psychological jargon.

Mickey reddens.

"Yeah, like your prison case manager.  Not like a therapist or nothin'," he hastens to add.

Ian thinks it's probably exactly like a therapist, but he doesn't push the subject.

"So who were you trying to forgive?" Ian asks curiosly, hoping it wasn't him and kind of hoping it was.

Mickey chews on his lip. Then he sighs.

"My dad," he says finally. "Thought it was kinda working until today, so fuckin' thanks for that."  He glares at Ian again, reminding him that things are still far from right between them.

"Sorry," Ian says automatically again.

Abruptly, Mickey turns and heads into the closest building.  Ian yelps in protest and hurries after him.

"Relax, I'm just finding some shade," Mickey snips.  

He seems to know where he's going, because he leads them up two flights of stairs into a wide open floor that's obviously a teenage party spot, judging by the amount of crushed and smashed alcohol bottles.  There's an old ripped up couch in the room, overlooking the other buildings.

Mickey plops down, then raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"No way in hell I'm sitting on that," Ian insists, crossing his arms.

Mickey shrugs, unconcerned.

"Suit yourself."

Ian leans on the open window instead.

"Think about how many people have fucked on that couch," Ian says, shuddering. 

"We'dve done it," Mickey says, grinning salaciously. "If this couch were up here when we were kids."

Ian laughs, because they definitely would have.  

It's nice not to have to sneak around anymore to have sex, but there had been something forbidden and secretive about it that made it so exciting.  And for someone who had been as deep in the closet as Mickey was, he was surprisingly willing to experiment, and pretty  voyeuristic, too.

Ian had gotten close over the years, but he'd never found a partner who had quite matched the sexual compatibility he'd felt with Mickey.

Then again, they _had_ been horny teenagers.  Maybe it just felt like they were incredibly compatible at the time.  Ian wonders what it would be like now that they're older and more experienced. 

Mickey has something entirely different on his mind.  Ian can see it in the troubled set of his eyebrows.

"How could he fuckin' do that to her?" Mickey says quietly, shaking his head and staring somewhere in front of Ian's feet.  "He always liked Mandy best.  Guess I fuckin' see why now."

Ian feels like a giant asshole for thinking about sex while Mickey has serious matters on his mind.  

There's no way he can make it better for Mickey.  He doesn't know what to say.

"Shoulda rolled on him when I had the chance," Mickey mutters.   

"What do you mean?" Ian asks, puzzled.

Mickey looks up, startled, as if he hadn't realized he had spoken out loud.  He breaks Ian's gaze and gnaws on his lip for a long moment.  Finally, he speaks.

"My dad sent someone for me.  Bout a year after I went in."

"Sent someone for you," Ian repeats, blood running cold.

"Wasn't a hit.  He didn't want me dead, just wanted me in my place.  Didn't even fuckin' out me, either.  Not that it mattered much anyway." 

"How do you know it was him?"  Maybe there was a mistake.  A misunderstanding. He doesn't know why he even tries to give Terry Milkovich the benefit of the doubt after all he's done.  But he's hopeful, for Mickey's sake.

Mickey snorts bitterly.

"'Terry says hello'. That's what the fucker said to me as I practically bled out on the floor."

Ian can only gape.  He feels sick.  

"Is that how you got those scars?" He asks finally, remembering the remnants of stab wounds on Mickey's ribs.

"Yeah."  Mickey traces the scars through his tank top absentmindedly. "They transferred me to a community hospital for a while.  Guess it got bad enough that the warden let my family see me."

"Holy shit! Why didn't Svetlana tell me?"

"Why would she?"  Mickey looks genuinely confused.

"Just because we weren't together doesn't mean I wouldn't have wanted to know!"

Mickey gives Ian a strange look, like he isn't quite sure if he should believe him.

Ian remembers what Svetlana had said to him weeks ago. _You don't have to be fucking him to support him_.

More than anything, he wishes he could have gotten his head out of his ass sooner. With the way he's treated Mickey, it's a wonder he's even sitting in front of him now.

"Don't matter anyway.  Told her not to tell anyone," Mickey says, voice stiff.  He's closing himself off.  

Ian sits next to him on the couch, abandoning his earlier misgivings.

 "I wish I would have come to see you more.  Didn't mean to just- I should've been there for you.  I was- I was trying to protect myself, I think."

Selfish.  Selfish selfish.

Mickey shrugs.

"People are allowed to move on," Mickey recites, likes he's parroting back something someone once said to him.  Maybe this counselor really did help Mickey move forward.

Mickey must have talked to him about Ian.  

"I'm glad you had someone to talk to in there," he tells Mickey.  "What was his name?" 

Mickey stiffens.

"What?" he asks tightly.  

"Your counselor.  What was his name?"

"Oh." Mickey releases tension in his shoulders and Ian frowns, feeling like he's missing something.  "Officer Wilson.  Tom."  Mickey stands up quickly and digs in his pants pocket, emerging with a lighter.  "Thought I had a smoke," he mutters, patting his other pocket.

"Here," Ian tells him, standing and reaching out to grab the loose cigarette Mickey's had stashed behind his ear the whole time.  Their fingers brush when Mickey snatches it from him.

"So how's Phil?" Mickey asks precipitously, taking Ian's old spot by the window.  Ian sits back down.

"Uh," says Ian, taken aback by the abrupt change in conversation.  "Okay I guess."

Mickey turns his head away and blows smoke out of his mouth in one long cloud.

"Trouble in paradise?" he drawls.

Ian sighs.

"I told him about us."  He gestures between the two of them.  "The night before I- y'know.  Stayed in bed for a while."  He scratches his head in embarrassment.

Mickey pauses for a moment, eyes half lidded and mouth slightly parted.  Ian recognizes that look, but he can't quite place it.  

"He didn't take it so well," Ian continues. "But I think he'll get over it.  Not too happy about us hanging out I guess though."  He laughs awkwardly.  

Mickey says nothing. When he does finally open his mouth to speak, he's changed the topic of conversation again.

"Sometimes I think maybe it's me.  Who made you crazy- Bipolar, whatever," he corrects himself.

Ian's jaw drops.  He's never imagined that Mickey would feel that way.

"It's just my brain chemistry.  My stupid gene pool."

"Anytime you've ever had a psychotic break or a depressive episode it's always been about me somehow," Mickey insists.  "Even from fucking prison," he adds bitterly.

He can sort of see why Mickey would think that.  

"I'd be dealing with Bipolar anyway.  And maybe the shit we went through exasperated it a little," Ian tells him honestly.  "But I don't regret it.  I don't regret us."  

He surprises himself by how sincerely he means it.  He's spent so long pushing these memories down.  They aren't all bad.  In fact, lots of them are fucking amazing.

"Do _you_ regret us?" he prompts Mickey, afraid of the answer but needing to hear it anyway.

Mickey smirks.

"Maybe some of it."

Ian smiles too.

"Wouldn't be the last eight years in the big house, would it?" he teases.

"Eight years and ninety days," Mickey corrects.  "Serves me right for being a dumbass I guess." He snorts.  "Nah, I don't regret it."  

They just look at one another for a long moment.  Mickey's eyes soften and he pushes himself off the ledge.

Ian wets his lips and sits up straighter on the couch.  His body hums. The air around him suddenly feels charged.

"We should get back," says Mickey suddenly, looking away and snapping them out of the moment Ian is certain they just shared. 

"Yeah," Ian agrees after a beat.  "Okay."

"I'm still fucking pissed at you," Mickey tells him as they make their way down the stairs.  His tone doesn't carry nearly as much heat as it did, however.

Ian checks his phone as they take the short walk to where Mickey's motorcycle is parked.  Phil's called and texted a few times.  Just variations of 'where the fuck are you'.  And Lip, over two hours ago, sent _everything okay?_

 _we're good_ Iantexts back and pockets his phone again. 

They are.  This conversation has gone better than Ian would have ever expected it to.

As the summer is beginning to wind down it's starting to get dark a little earlier each night.  The sun is just barely hovering above the top of the buildings, and it's cool now where the sun hasn't reached the concrete all day.  Ian shivers a little as they come upon the bike.

"Here," Mickey says, picking up his leather jacket from where it's still on the seat and shoving it into Ian's hands without making eye contact as he mounts the bike.  "It'll be even colder when we're moving."

"Won't you need it?"

"Nah, I'm not a pussy," he teases.  

Mickey waits while Ian puts it on.  It's too short in the arms and torso but fits in the shoulders.  And it smells like cigarette smoke and deodorant.  It smells like Mickey.

"Gallagher house?" Mickey asks as he kicks the bike to life.

"Yeah," Ian replies.  He pauses, then adds, "can we take the scenic route?"

"There such a thing in Canaryville?" Mickey asks drily as Ian mounts the bike behind him.

Mickey turns in the opposite direction of home at the next block and Ian grins.  Maybe a part of Mickey doesn't want this time together to end either.  It had been painful, but cathartic.  Ian thinks maybe they're getting somewhere, but he's not sure where that is exactly.

They ride in silence for nearly ten minutes, weaving up and down the streets.  It's peaceful.  Ian lets his brain shut off for a while, tuning out the heavy shit they'd talked about so he can enjoy the moment.  

Mickey's back is warm and firm against Ian's chest.  

Ian closes his eyes and lets his cheek fall onto Mickey's bare shoulder blade for a moment, right on top of the tattoo of the  final bird in flight.  He yawns against Mickey's skin.

Mickey jerks Ian off his back.

"Not on the bike, sleeping beauty," he yells back to Ian.  "Gonna take you home."

Ian feels like he might have ruined the moment somehow.

When they're a few blocks away from the Gallagher homestead, Ian taps Mickey on the shoulder.

"Here's good," he says in Mickey's ear.

"Why? We're almost fuckin' there."

"Phil's at the party," Ian tells him.  "Can't exactly cruise up on the back of your motorcycle." 

Mickey says nothing as he slows to a stop at the side of the street.

"Thanks," Ian tells Mickey as he dismounts. "For talking to me."

Mickey nods.

"See ya around, Gallagher."

"Wait- aren't you going to the party?"

"And risk being seen with you?" Mickey snarks.  "Nah,  I'll make it up to Carl some other time."  

"Mickey-"

"Don't worry about it."

And he lifts his hand in a half wave and takes off down the street, turning toward the Alibi at the next block.

Ian stands in one spot for a full minute, staring in the direction Mickey had disappeared.  Then he sighs and starts walking.

When he finally trudges up the steps and opens the door to the raging house party, Phil just so happens to be standing in the living room, right there to greet him.

"Hey," Phil roars with glee over the music and other partygoers.  He pulls Ian into a clumsy hug.  "Been waiting for you all night! Did ya find it?"

"Uh," Ian hedges.  He's got no clue what Phil's talking about, but Lip must have come up with something to cover for him.  "No."

"Bummer.  Hey, you get a new jacket?" 

Ian freezes.  He's still wearing Mickey's leather jacket.

"Yeah," he says after a long, panicked beat of silence.  Thankfully, Phil is just drunk enough not to notice the obvious omission of truth.

"Hey, you wanna be my beer pong partner?" Phil asks him, thankfully moving on.  "Sober player could come in handy right about now."

"Sure."  Quickly, Ian takes the jacket off and throws it on the back of the easy chair.

Ian follows Phil through a houseful of people and out the back door into the backyard, where Lip and Kev are loudly and drunkenly arguing about regulation size of a beer pong table.

"Whatever," Lip relents, evidently conceding to Kev.  "Haven't played beer pong since college anyway."

"Yeah, rub it in why don't ya," Carl slurs. He's very trashed and leaning heavily against the table. 

"You're a college graduate too now, remember?" Lip prompts with an eye roll.  This supremely confuses Carl for a minute, then he grins.

"Oh yeah!" 

"Hey," Lip greets Ian when he notices him standing next to Phil.  "Any luck?" He fixes Ian with a meaningful stare. 

"Nope," Ian says.

Phil slings an arm around his shoulder companionably and Ian fights the urge to throw it off.

He doesn't want to be alone.  He's not good at it.  But he's not sure if he and Phil can get past this. 

He's got a lot to fucking think about.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Carl
> 
> I went back and forth in my head about whether canon Ian might have told Mickey about what happened with Terry and Mandy and we (the audience) maybe just weren't privilege to it. I'm like 80% sure they never really referred to it again after the episode, so tell me if I'm wrong. I hope I haven't made a huge mistake (insert Gob Bluth meme here).


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a **trigger warning** for this chapter. I'm going to be vague because I don't want to give anything away, but if you feel you are easily triggered (I'm pretty positive most of you will be fine but you never know) scroll down to the bottom notes before you read.

Carl: early August

* * *

Carl woke up cotton mouthed, ears ringing and head pounding. But it was cool and dark where he was lying, so that was something, anyway. Carl sat up, and promptly smashed his head.

"Fuck," he groaned.

He was in the hideout under the stairs, wearing only his boxers. He turned his head to the right and jumped in shock, smashing his head a second time. Liam was passed out flat on his back next to him. He had a penis drawn on his cheek.

Carl rubbed at his own cheek, hoping he didn't have a matching one.

"The fuck happened last night?" he wondered aloud, and winced at the sound of his own voice reverberating in his head.

He crawled out from the hideout, hissing as the sunlight hit his face. He shaded his eyes and stood with effort.

Lip was sprawled out on the living room couch, and Phil was on the floor beside him. Someone was moving around in the kitchen, and Carl shuffled in to investigate.

Ian stood at the stove, already fully dressed. He looked way too chipper.

“Morning,” he said loudly, clanging the spatula he was holding onto the pancake griddle like the asshole he was. He grinned when Carl groaned and flipped him off. "Water on the table," he said a little quieter, pointing to where he'd stacked several bottles of water. "And pancakes in a few."

"What, no hair of the dog?" Carl grumbled.

"Doesn't work. Hydrate instead." Ian pointed again to the water and Carl did as he was told. He chugged a few mouthfuls and headed into the bathroom to relieve himself. He checked himself out in the mirror after and declared himself dick drawing free.

"Bring these to the guys," Ian instructed him, handing him two more bottles of water.

"Your legs don't fucking work?" Carl asked dispassionately. Ian shot an apprehensive glance into the living room, then shrugged.

Carl dropped first Phil's, then Lip's water bottles on each man's respective stomachs when he re-entered the living room. They both woke up with satisfying 'oofs'.

"Fuck," Lip groaned as he sat up slowly. "Time is it?"

"No fuckin' idea. Cinderella's in there making breakfast though." Carl gestured to the kitchen.

"9:45," Phil supplied after glancing at his watch. His knees cracked as he pulled himself off the floor and into the recliner. "I'm too old for this shit."

"Need a smoke," Lip groaned from his spread eagle position on the couch.

"Me too," Carl agreed, shoving Lip's feet aside so he could sit down. He went to pat his pants pockets but remembered belatedly that he wasn't wearing any.

He spotted Mickey's leather jacket hanging over the back of the lazyboy Phil had flopped into.

If anyone was sure to always travel with at least a half pack of cigarettes, it would be Mickey.

"Hey, hand me Mickey's jacket, would you?" he asked Phil wearily. Phil was much closer and looked much more with it than Carl felt. "You guys remember Mickey even being here last night?" he asked them.

Lip shrugged. Phil frowned.

"That brown leather one behind your head, dumbass," Carl pointed out when Phil made no move to reach for the only coat on the chair.

"Ian came home wearing this jacket," Phil said slowly, suspiciously, as he picked up the jacket.

"Nah, that's Mickey's motorcycle jacket," Carl corrected lazily.

Lip sat up suddenly looking much less hungover and shot Carl the look. _Cover for him._

"Oh yeah," said Carl, catching on too slowly to sound convincing. "Must be Ian's. My bad." He blamed the alcohol still coursing through his veins.

He looked on a little guiltily as Phil set his mouth in a thin line and dug with determination through the pockets of the jacket.

He tossed a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, and a condom onto the coffee table, then pulled out brass knuckles from the other side.

Well fuck. No reason for a non-smoking, non-violent guy with a serious boyfriend to carry around any of those things. Ian wasn't getting out of this one easily.

Ian chose that exact moment to stick his head around the corner.

"Pancakes are up," he said.

His smile faltered when he took in the scene- his brothers looking awkwardly on while Phil's anger was mounting.

"Ian," Phil said, voice remarkably even, given the thunderous look on his face. "Who's jacket is this?"

Ian considered lying, Carl could tell. For someone who did it a lot, you'd think Ian would have a better poker face.

"Mickey's," Ian said finally. "But he just gave me it to wear for a minute and I forgot to take it off!"

Phil nodded once, twice. He reached onto the coffee table and snatched up the condom.

"And how long have you been fucking him?" he spat, throwing the condom at Ian.

Ian dodged it. He stared down at the condom, looking shocked.

"Where did you-"

"In your ex's jacket," Phil exclaimed. Carl had never seen Phil so animated before. He was usually pretty one dimensional. "I asked you, Ian, if you wanted to be with him. You said no! But you turn around and fucking cheat on me anyway?"

"I didn't, I swear!" Ian insisted. "We were just talking! How am I supposed to know he carries a fucking condom with him at all times?"

It wasn't a bad idea, Carl thought. Always good to be prepared.

"You were just talking," Phil repeated. "Is that why you were late to the party last night?" Ian looked down at the floor. Phil scoffed and whirled on Lip. "And _you_ fucking covered for him!"

Lip shrugged neutrally, but his body was tense.

"I told you we had history. I told you we had a lot of shit to sort out," Ian finally spoke, his voice reedy.

"And I told you that made me uncomfortable. And you said okay! You knew the whole time you were going to go behind my back, didn't you?"

"I tried, okay?" Ian shouted. "But we just can't avoid each other! We've never been able to."

Carl thought Ian had actually done a pretty fantastic job of avoiding Mickey for the last eight or so years, but whatever.

"So I was just the plaything you had fun with while you waited around for a murderer to get out of prison." Tears were welling up in Phil's eyes. This was getting more awkward by the second.

"Attempted," Carl corrected impassively, going for the cigarettes anyway.

"It wasn't like that!" Ian insisted, ignoring Carl. "I love you! But Mickey-" he stopped, opening and closing his mouth. "I love him too." He looked a little dumbfounded, like he'd only just realized this.

Bad fucking timing for that epiphany, thought Carl.

Phil scrubbed his hands over his face. The in-the-moment anger had completely left him, and now he just looked miserable.

"I gotta get out of here." He sat for another several seconds, then abruptly stood, wobbling a little with the sudden movement. "I gotta go," he said again.

"You okay to drive?" Lip asked him, speaking for the first time in several minutes.

"Probably not," Phil chuckled bitterly. He tossed the brass knuckles onto the coffee table with a clatter. "Do me a favor," he said to Ian. "Don't come home for a while. I need- I need a little time."

Ian nodded wordlessly. His eyes were reddening. He still held the spatula in one hand.

Silently, Phil found his shoes and his keys. Then he was out the door.  And then there many seconds of awkward silence.

Carl and Lip glanced briefly at each other, afraid to turn and look at Ian's face. But they were saved by a weak voice at the top of the stairs.

"The gays sure do have a flair for the dramatics," Frank said. Then, in spectacular and horrendous slow motion, he tipped over and tumbled head first down the stairs.

Lip, Carl, and Ian all rushed forward.

"Don't move him," Ian ordered, pushing Carl out of the way to crouch down next to Frank on the tiny landing before the next set of stairs. "He might have injured his neck. Frank," he called calmly, authoritatively. Frank uttered the smallest of moans. Then he started violently shaking all over. "He's seizing," Ian told them. "Call 911."

Ian eased Frank onto his side as Lip rushed for his phone and dialed.

"I thought you said not to move him," Carl said, feeling panic rise as he watched his father twitch and shake in the fetal position on the stairs.

"Helps his airway stay open in case he-" Ian didn't even have to finish his sentence before it became clear why. Frank choked up dark red blood all over the floor and Ian's knees. "Frank," Ian called to him, putting a steadying hand on his father's shoulder. "Dad, it's alright.  We got you."

Blood was rushing through Carl's ears. He barely heard Lip as he made the call. He hardly heard Ian as he coached Frank through his episode. He scarcely felt Liam yank hard on his arm as he joined the group crowding around the stairs.

"Carl," someone said. "Carl."

It was Liam.

Hearing the voice of his younger brother for the first time in months snapped Carl out of his haze.

He needed to remain calm.  He was gonna be a cop- scarier shit was going to happen on the regular. 

But this was _his_ family.

"Go get Fiona. And Debbie," Carl ordered Liam. Liam took off for the back staircase.

"Still not conscious," Ian was saying as Lip held the phone close so Ian could speak to the operator. "Pulse weak."

"Ambulance about seven minutes out. Stay on the line," a woman's voice said through the speaker.

"Patient stopped breathing. Airways clear. Beginning CPR," Ian said suddenly, rolling Frank onto his back.

"Holy shit," said Lip. He yanked a hand through his wild hair. "Holy shit, this is really fucking happening."

Frank had been sick and dying, had so many close calls for so long, that it hadn't really seemed like the day would ever come.

"Oh my God," said Fiona, appearing at the top on the stairs and staring down at Frank's prone body as Ian, covered in deep scarlet blood, worked over him.

"Daddy!" Debbie cried, clutching at Fiona's shoulders.

"What can we do?" Fiona asked, wringing her hands. Ian said nothing, just continued to pump Frank's chest at a steady beat.

Carl had never been more proud of Ian's accomplishments as an EMT. He was calm and collected. Carl, on the other hand, felt like puking.  Literally.

"Get dressed and get ready to head to the hospital," Lip ordered. "You too, Carl. I'll stay with Ian and Frank." The rest of them just stood there- Fiona, Debbie and Liam at the top of the stairs and Carl at the bottom. "Hurry," Lip prompted.

Carl headed for the back stairs but made a pit stop in the downstairs bathroom, where he emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

 

By the time Carl had thrown on decent clothing, scrubbed some toothpaste onto his teeth, and headed back downstairs, the paramedics were already strapping Frank onto a gurney. He had a neck brace on and one of the EMTs was pumping a bag connected to Frank's mouth.

"Ian's riding with Frank," Lip told him. He was still standing in his boxers and undershirt. "We'll follow in the car."

"D'you think this is it?" Carl asked him lowly, so an increasingly hysterical Debbie couldn't hear.

Lip just looked at him sadly, lips in a grim line. Carl looked over his head at Ian, who bore the same expression on his face as he followed the gurney out the front door.  He had Frank's blood smeared across his forehead.

"I'll get dressed and grab some clothes for Ian," Lip told Carl.  He started to head up the front staircase but stopped dead in his tracks as he took in the old blood from Frank's gut coating the floor.  Then he turned on his heel and marched in the other direction. 

 

Ian greeted them in the Emergency waiting room when they arrived a half hour later.  He was wearing scrub bottoms someone must have given him, and he'd washed his face.

"He isn't able to breathe on his own," he told them wearily.  "Organs are shutting down."  He looked at Fiona.  "We're gonna have to make some decisions."

"You mean like pull the plug?" Debbie squeaked, covering her mouth with the hand she wasn't gripping onto Carl's own. 

Ian said nothing, but he and Fiona exchanged a long look.  Fiona blinked as a single fat tear rolled down her cheek.

"Let's go see him.  Talk to the doctor," Lip suggested.  He herded them along as Ian led the way.

"Gallagher family?" a balding doctor greeted them as they entered the room.  "I'm Dr. Harris."  He shook each of their hands in turn.  Carl only half listened as he gazed over the doctor's shoulder at the man in the hospital bed, a tube down his throat and connected to an impossible number of beeping machines as the doctor talked about coma and organ failure.

Was this his father?  This impossibly small skeleton of a man on a hospital bed?

Seeing Frank like this reminded Carl of when he was much younger, the first time Frank had been really, truly near death.  That time Carl had done everything in his power to save his father.   Frank hadn't wanted to die then.  

Carl wondered how he would feel now.

He wished he would have paid better attention to him these last few years. Asked him how he was doing.  Frank may be an asswipe, but he's still his dad.

"Can he hear us?" Carl interrupted the doctor mid sentence.  

The doctor hesitated.

"At this point, we're keeping him comfortable.  But some families take comfort in taking some time to speak to their loved one."

"So you're saying he's a vegetable," Carl clarified.

The doctor hesitated for a beat.  "There's no evidence of brain function," Dr. Harris told him.

 

What felt like a long while later, Fiona and Lip whispered quietly in the corner of the room while the four youngest Gallaghers sat around the bed. Carl tore his eyes away from Debbie, who was crying quietly into her hands as she lay her head on the bed.  Instead he looked over to Ian, who was sitting with his head in his hands under the window.

"Ian," he said to his brother.  His voice was a little scratchy from disuse and swallowing back tears.  Ian looked up wearily, rubbing a hand over his face.  He looked more than drained.  He looked like he was holding himself together by a thread.  "You did awesome today.  You're really good at your job."  

Ian managed a barely-there smile.

"Thanks," he said. 

"You doing okay?  I mean, besides the obvious?"

Ian sighed.

"Not really," he replied honestly.

"Long fucking day," Carl commiserated.  Broke up with his boyfriend, rediscovered his love for his ex, worked hard to save the life of his father. A long fucking day indeed, and it wasn't quite dinner time.  Speaking of, Ian (and the rest of them) really needed to eat something. 

"About to get longer," Lip interrupted behind them as he and Fiona joined them.  "If you guys are ready, we think we made a decision." 

"No," Debbie moaned into her hands.  Liam, trying to make himself as invisible as possible as his lanky frame could manage, clunked his head against the wall.  

"They can't say how long he'll... linger when we turn off the machines.  Could be minutes, could be days," Fiona told them.  She carded her hands through Debbie's long loose hair.  "But they'll give us all the time we need to say goodbye."  She sniffled, then kissed the top of Debbie's head.

"He's suffered a lot over the last couple years, Debs," Lip told Debbie softly.  "We gotta let him go."

"He wouldn't want to die!"  Debbie insisted.  "He's always wanted to fight!"

"It's true,"  Carl heard himself come to her defense.  "He's never wanted to give up."  

"His mind's already gone," Ian told Carl hollowly.  "He isn't even in there anymore." 

"Can he feel pain?" Carl asked him.  Ian shrugged.  

"I hope not," he answered.  "But if he does, it's all the more reason to let him go."

"We won't do it until everybody's ready," Fiona assured them.  "We got time."

"Should we try to find Monica?" Debbie asked in a small voice.

Lip and Fiona looked at one another.

"We talked about it," Lip told them.  "We decided to wait until after, if that's okay.  Ian?"

They all looked to Ian, who bore a pained expression on his face.  He considered this.

"Fine," he said finally.  He looked down at his hands.  "She's gonna be pissed though.  Probably manic."  He wrung his hands together so tightly the knuckles whitened.

"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?" Lip appeased.

They sat there for a while, listening to the slow beeps of Frank's pulse and the sounds of artificial respiration filling his lungs.

Lip disappeared and then reappeared with snacks from the vending machine at one point.  Ian ate a few pretzels with effort, but the rest of the food was left untouched.

Carl looked around at his siblings.  Fiona, Lip and Ian were all on board.  He could do this too.

"I'm ready," Carl said with finality. 

Debbie looked over at him.  They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment.  Then Debbie inhaled deeply.

"Okay," she agreed shakily.  "Okay."

"Liam?" Fiona asked, and everyone turned to the youngest.  Of all of the kids, Liam had the least interactions with Frank.  To Liam, Frank was basically some old guy who hung around every so often.

Liam cleared his throat.

"Yeah," he said clearly. 

Fiona, momentarily forgetting where she was and what she was about to do, beamed at the sound of his voice. 

"I'll get Dr. Harris," Ian offered, pulling himself heavily from his chair.  Fiona and Lip exchanged concerned looks.

They'd have to keep a close eye on Ian in the coming weeks, to make sure he didn't slip backwards. Relationship issues, death of a loved one- both of those things could be triggering for Ian.

Death of a loved one.  Carl couldn't believe this was really, finally fucking happening. 

Once Ian returned to the room with a doctor and a nurse, things moved surprisingly quickly.  

"Would anyone like to say anything before we continue?" asked Dr. Harris.

"Yeah," said Fiona, swiping at her eyes.  "I do."  She took a deep breath and went over to the bed, holding her father's hand in her own.  "I want to thank you, Frank.  Dad.  For givin' me the people in this room.  If you did nothin' else good, you did that."

Carl had once thought long and hard about what he would last day to his dad when the time came.  It was almost comforting to know, in sort of a fucked up way, that in the end he didn't feel like he had to. 

If the doctor and nurse were surprised by the lack of accolades, they didn't comment.  They simply waited for Fiona's nod, then turned off the machines and calmly left the room.  

Carl held tight onto Debbie's hand as Ian leaned across the bed and reached for his other hand.  Fiona, Lip and Liam filled in the circle.  

They waited like that, for over an hour, until finally, Frank Gallagher took his last breath. 

Carl cried openly, hugging each one of his siblings in turn as they did the same.

After he pulled Liam into his final hug, he reared back a little.

"Dude," he told Liam.  "You _still_ have a dick on your face."

Everyone paused, taking this in.  Then a burst of laughter took over everyone in the room.  It was such a fucking Gallagher way to ruin a moment.  Even Frank would have gotten a kick out of it.

They should have snuck in some booze.  There's really only one way to send off a Gallagher.

Carl wiped more tears from his eyes and wondered just what the doctors and nurses thought of them now, laughing hysterically as their father passed away.  

Eh, who the fuck cared?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning: Frank dies (not too graphic) and his children start to mourn him.
> 
> Up next: Ian


	16. Chapter 16

Ian: early August 

* * *

Ian can't remember a time his head has pounded this much.  

Wearily, he and his siblings enter the house and are greeted by Kev and V.  V embraces Fiona tightly and Kev gives a grim smile to the rest of them.

"We cleaned up best we could," V tells Fiona.  Ian glances at the stairs, where no amount of scrubbing will probably ever take away the remnants of blood.  They'll have to get the carpet replaced.

Fiona nods, silent.

"Thanks," Lip says for her, gripping Kev on the shoulder as he moves past the stoic group and goes further into the house.  "Do I smell garlic bread?"

"Svetlana made lasagna," V tells Lip as she moves from Fiona to Debbie.  "It's in the oven."

"Are they here?" Ian hears himself ask. His voice sounds far away.

"Didn't want to overwhelm you," V answers.

"Come and eat something before you crash," Carl orders Ian gently, pushing him toward the kitchen. Ian wills his hackles to rise at the blatant babying, but he's too drained to get worked up about it now.

He sort of gets it, anyway.

He and Liam are the only ones who eat, but they all sit crowded together at the table.  Ian makes himself eat his entire helping, even though his tongue feels like it weighs twenty pounds.  

"Bedtime," Fiona announces finally, and Ian is taken back twenty years in time, when Fiona, barely even a teenager, would corral her siblings into bed on a school night.  Lip and Ian would stay up anyway, sometimes crowding into the same bed to whisper to one another all night.

Like old times, Ian follows Lip up the cramped back staircase and into their old bedroom.  But they pause in the doorway as they take it in.  Frank's bed, the covers still drawn, stands in the corner in Liam's old spot. Pill containers and an old Gatorade bottle filled with something that look suspiciously like urine litter the bedside table.  

"I'll take care of it," Lip tells Ian, and Ian stands there, rooted to the spot while Lip disappears, then reappears with a garbage bag. He swipes everything off the bedside table with one arm, and then rips the sheets from the bed in record time.  "You need something to sleep in?" Lip asks Ian suddenly, and Ian starts a little.

"No," he says.  He tugs off his pants and socks and collapses into his childhood bed.  

Lip hovers over him for a long moment.  Ian can sense him staring, even with his eyes closed.  

"Love ya, Ian," Lip says finally.

Ian opens his eyes and meets Lip's sharp blue ones.

"Love you more," Ian counters, managing a half smirk.  They used to play this game with Fiona when they were kids.  It always ended the same, with Fiona teasing " _I love you infinity plus one_ ," and Lip, a smart ass at every age, insisting that just wasn't possible.

But Lip doesn't continue the joke.  He just searches Ian's face for a moment longer, then heads for his old bed.

Ian closes his eyes and sleeps.

The next morning, Ian doesn't wake until the alarm on his watch sounds for him to take his morning pills.

7:30.  He hasn't slept in past 6 since before he was diagnosed.  It's a little terrifying, and he inspects his mind, searching for the muddy feeling that tells him he's on a downswing.

Numb.  He feels numb.

Ian crawls out of bed and gazes at Lip, sprawled on his stomach with an arm hanging off his old bed. He's snoring softly.

Ian digs in his overnight bag he'd packed for Carl's party and finds his travel pill case.  He's only got a few days' worth in there.  He'll have to head home soon to get more.

Home.  Phil.  

The memories from the day before whoosh back into Ian's brain.  Phil accusing Ian of cheating.  Phil storming off, asking Ian not to come home for a while.

But not before Ian admitted that he still loved Mickey.

He hadn't known he was going to say it.  He wasn't totally sure he'd even known it before the words came out of his mouth.

He'll have to deal with it soon.

He dresses and counts out his pills, _one, two, three._  On his way out of the bathroom he peeks into Fiona's room.  She and Debbie are curled up together over the covers.  It looks like they fell asleep holding hands.

He heads down the stairs.

He stands at the kitchen counter and munches on a piece of toast.

He wanders around the dining room, inspecting the pictures scattered on tables and walls.  Most of them are very old, from when everyone was just little kids, but some are newer.  He finds one of himself standing in front of an ambulance- his smile doesn't reach his eyes.  

That had been the first year Mickey was away.  

He moves on, and there's a picture of all of them- including Frank and Monica but minus Liam.  Carl's just a baby, being dangled a little haphazardly by his mother.  Toddler Debbie is screaming in Fiona's arms.  Lip and Ian share expressions of distaste, evidently displeased with having their photo taken.  And Frank and Monica are gazing happily at one another.  Monica's eyes are a little wild, and Frank's got a beer in his hand.  

It actually really captures their family perfectly.  Ian can see why Fiona has kept this one around.

He sits on the couch for a while, unthinking.  The house is quiet.

His gaze falls on Mickey's jacket, still thrown haphazardly on the seat of the recliner where Phil had left it in his haste.

He should return it to its owner. 

Without thinking too much about it, Ian snatches up the jacket and heads out the door.  

The walk to the Alibi is quiet.  It's early morning on a Sunday and no one's around yet.  

The bar won't be open for hours, so Ian goes straight for the back door and rings the delivery bell.  He rings it again after two minutes with no response.

"Coming, asshole," someone shouts through the door moments before it swings open and Mickey appears, shirtless and wearing pajama bottoms.  He's also wielding a baseball bat. 

Mickey's face softens instantly and he lowers the bat when he sees who it is.  

"Hey," he says.

"I uh- came to return your jacket," Ian says stupidly, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat upon seeing Mickey as he hands it over.  Mickey looks down at the jacket in surprise.

Svetlana's voice filters down the stairs, an annoyed lilt to her voice.

"It's Ian!" Mickey tears his soft blue eyes away from Ian's face for a moment to turn and call up to her, and out of nowhere, Ian feels the dam break.

Mickey gapes when he turns back and Ian's suddenly blubbering like a baby.

"Frank died," Ian tells him through his tears.

"I know," Mickey says softly.  

"I just- I just needed to see you," Ian chokes out, and Mickey's moving forward instantly and pulling Ian into his arms.

"C'mere," Mickey soothes, guiding him all the way into the building.  The door swings shut behind them and they stand there in the dark entrance to the back of the Alibi for a long time, Ian leaning his weight against Mickey and crying into his bare shoulder.  Mickey doesn't say anything, just cards one hand softly through the short hair at the back of Ian's neck.

It's soothing and peaceful.

When Ian is reduced to sniffling, Mickey untangles himself from Ian and takes one step back, but he keeps a hand on Ian's shoulder as he does so.

"Let me go get dressed," Mickey tells him, gesturing to his unclothed torso.  His right shoulder is glistening with Ian's snot and tears.

Ian feels immediately abashed.

"I'll just go-" he starts to say, but Mickey interrupts him.

"I'm taking you to breakfast.  Wait here," he says authoritatively.  He tightens his grip on Ian's shoulder until Ian nods in acquiescence, then he turns and pads up the stairs, bare feet slapping against the wood.

Ian stands awkwardly, sniffling in the dark as he listens to quiet murmurings in the upstairs apartment.  Just minutes later, Mickey thunders back down the stairs in a sleeveless band shirt, jeans and motorcycle boots.

"Bike's at Iggy's getting fixed.  You good with the El?"

Ian nods and wipes at his eyes one last time.  He's got the kind of skin tone that gives away that he's been crying long after he's done, so he'll be splotchy for a while.

Mickey lights up a cigarette while they wait for the next train and Ian breathes in the comforting smell when Mickey turns toward him on his exhale.

"Kid got into that school," Mickey tells him offhandedly.  "Starts in a few weeks."

"That's great," Ian replies, trying and failing to sound upbeat about it.  Mickey doesn't call him out on it though, he just sucks his cigarette down to the filter and tosses it aside, then nods toward the approaching train.

Ian is grateful for Mickey's silence.  Mickey's always been this way.  He knows what Ian needs from him.  He isn't pushy unless he needs to be.

They get off the El in a few stops, then walk a block and a half to a diner.  

"Not really that hungry," Ian tells Mickey apologetically as Mickey peruses the menu.

"I'm fuckin' starved."  

Mickey orders pancakes with a side of eggs and Ian gets half a grapefruit and more toast because Mickey took the trouble to bring him here and all Ian wants is just to be in his presence.

"Carl told me what you did," Mickey begins finally when the waitress leaves Mickey's coffee and Ian's water at the table.  "With Frank," Mickey clarifies when Ian stares at him, puzzled.

Ian nods slowly.  His brain usually switches off when he's in life saving mode, but he remembers the feeling of Frank's sternum under his hands as he tried futilely to pump oxygen into his lungs.  And the smell of blood on his hands and seeping into his knees long after he'd washed and changed.

"I did everything I could," Ian says with a shrug.  He knows it's not his fault that Frank didn't make it, but the idea is still there in the far corner of his brain.

"Course ya did.  He knows that too."

The food arrives, and Mickey snatches up his fork like he hasn't eaten in days.  Ian passes Mickey the Tabasco without thinking and says, "do you believe in the afterlife?"

"You askin' if I think Frank's up in heaven right now?" Mickey snorts as he loads his eggs with Tabasco and takes an experimental bite.  

Ian shrugs.  He isn't exactly naïve enough to think that Frank would end up in heaven, if there was such a place.  He'd honestly never put much thought into religion before.

"Nah, there's no afterlife," Mickey says decidedly, moving on to pour syrup onto his pancakes.

"So there's just... nothing?" Ian wonders.  The thought makes his gut twist.

"Yeah.  But not in the bad way.  Your brain just shuts off.  Empty.  Peaceful, ya know?"  

"How do you know?" Ian asks, a little in awe of Mickey sureness.  He's been holding a spoonful of grapefruit for a minute now, not even pretending to want to eat it.

"Been there," Mickey says through a mouthful of food after a beat.  He doesn't look at Ian's eyes. "For a while. Real hard to come back down to Earth."

Ian drops his fork with a clatter and Mickey looks up at him, something flashing quickly behind his eyes before he masks it.

"What do you mean?"  Ian's blood is cold in his veins.  

Mickey shrugs, feigning nonchalance.  

"Didn't try anything stupid or nothin'.  Just had some tough times, took a little vacation is all."

"Took a vacation?" Ian repeats, voice on edge.  

Mickey looks as though he supremely regrets saying anything.  His face is a cross between extreme annoyance and intense embarrassment.

"Yeah, like a _mind_ vacation.  You should know all about them, huh?" He sneers at Ian, then his eyes widen and he swallows guiltily.  "Sorry," he mutters into his food.   He bites down hard on his lower lip.  "Bathroom." Then he high tails it out of the booth, leaving Ian stunned in his wake.

Everything Mickey has hinted at about his time in prison digs the knife deeper into Ian's gut.  Ian tries to imagine eight years- eight long years probably fighting for your life, minimal visitors, no one to trust.

After a minute, Ian gets up.

Mickey is just finishing up at the urinal when Ian walks in.  He doesn't look up but Ian can tell by the way his shoulders tense that he knows it's him.

"I don't think I'm ever gonna stop being sorry for not coming to see you more," Ian tells Mickey's back.

Mickey zips up and flushes, then turns to face him.  

"Don't worry about it," he says nonchalantly.

"You went through a lot of shit, Mickey, and I should have been there!  I should have been someone for you to lean on."

"Yeah well, that didn't happen," Mickey says sharply, eyebrows challenging.

"Maybe it can happen now," Ian says softly, taking one step closer in the small, dingy diner bathroom.  

"Maybe not _here,_ " Mickey deflects, swerving around Ian and opening the bathroom door. "Food's getting cold." 

Ian sighs and follows Mickey back to the booth, where Mickey tucks into his food like nothing happened.  Ian pushes his uneaten food away from him, done pretending.

"So tell me about your mind vacation," Ian presses, using Mickey's earlier words.

Mickey groans.

"Jesus man, we came here cuz you needed to talk about your dad, not my fuckin' issues."

Right.  Frank.

Ian feels pretty shitty to have completely forgotten about Frank- not even dead for 24 hours yet. 

"So you guys make funeral plans yet?" Mickey asks, changing the subject for good. 

Their waitress, a wiry lady in her fifties, refills Mickey's coffee cup and winks at him as she saunters away. Mickey raises one amused eyebrow, then turns back to Ian.

"Maybe Fiona and Lip have, I don't know," Ian says honestly.  "Things have been a little-" he waves a hand around near his head.  Mickey nods.

"You're upright anyway.  That's a good sign," Mickey encourages.

Ian snorts. 

"Be grateful, man.  You got people around to help you out and shit."

Mickey doesn't mean for his comment to be loaded, Ian can tell by the way his eyebrows stay neutral as he takes a sip of his fresh coffee.

But Ian can't help but think about how here _he_ is, leaning on Mickey when his dad has died.  Meanwhile Mickey was alone in his cell when he got the news about his own father and Ian hadn't even bothered to check on him.

"Whatcha thinking about?" Mickey asks curiously when Ian says nothing for several minutes.

"You," Ian answers honestly.  He searches Mickey's face and Mickey stares back, eyes confused and lips pulled into his mouth.  Then he stands and throws some cash on the table.

"Don't even think about it," he warns Ian when he goes for his wallet too.  "You didn't even touch your rabbit food.  I got this."

"Thanks," Ian says softly.  He follows Mickey out of the diner and they head for the El.

They sit down across from a man harping loudly on his cell phone to what appears to be his boyfriend, based on the one sided conversation they can hear.  It reminds Ian of the last words Frank had said.

"Before he died," Ian murmurs, "the last thing Frank did was make fun of gay people." 

"Yeah well, fuck him then," Mickey says with feeling.

Something about the way Mickey doesn't hesitate to speak ill of Ian's recently dead father strikes Ian's funny bone, and all of the sudden he's doubled over with laughter.

He's got the attention of the nearly deserted train car at this point as he bends at the waist and laughs into his knees in his seat.  Mickey thumps him on the back and chuckles nervously.

"Hey man, cut the shit," he mutters.  Ian comes up for air and wipes tears of mirth from his eyes.

"They're happy tears," he tells a concerned Mickey.  

And then he's crying for real again.

Jesus, grief is a strange thing.

Mickey pulls Ian's hand into his and runs his thumb over Ian's knuckles while Ian sniffles.

"He's really gone," Ian whispers to Mickey as he settles.

"Yeah," Mickey agrees in his soothing tone.  "On the plus side, now you'll never have to smell that smell again. Y'know, that _Frank Gallagher_ smell."  He wrinkles his nose. 

Ian stares at him.

"Remind me not to let you write Frank's eulogy." 

They both look up at the sudden tittering of a gaggle of teenage boys who joined them on the last stop.  They're gaping openly at Ian and Mickey's still-linked hands.

"The fuck you looking at?" Mickey snaps loudly, rising halfway out of his seat.

"Oh shit," one of the kids breathes, and they hustle farther down the car.

Mickey relaxes back in his seat, but he releases Ian's hand anyway. 

The guy across from them gives Ian a knowing smile.

When they get off at their stop, Mickey automatically starts walking with Ian toward the Gallagher house.

"Thanks for today," Ian tells him.  "I think it helped."

"Good," replies Mickey, nodding.  Then he grins mischievously and glances at Ian from the corner of his eye. "Race ya," Mickey says, and before Ian has a chance to react he's off and running.  A little clumsily, Ian takes after him, laughing.

Ian may be a distance runner, but his gangly legs weren't built for sprints.  Mickey beats him easily to the lamppost a block away from the Gallagher house, but bends over with a smoker's hack as he catches his breath.

"Always was faster than you," Mickey teases as Ian thunders next to him twenty paces behind.

"Yeah well, add a couple miles and we'll see who's laughing," Ian shoots back, grinning.

Mickey beams back at him. He looks younger when he smiles, so much like the teenager Ian used to pine for.  

Before he can stop himself, Ian lunges forward and kisses him.

And instantly, Mickey kisses him back.  Without hesitation Mickey opens his lips to Ian and their tongues tangle together.

It's exactly how he remembers it, and infinitely better at the same time.  Mickey's always kissed with the intensity he brings to everything in his life. 

Sparks shoot up Ian's arms and legs and pool in his belly.  He grips tightly to the back of Mickey's neck and grins against his mouth.  This feels right.  It's what he's meant to do.

But the world comes crashing down again when Mickey abruptly wrenches his lips from Ian's and leaps back.

Confused and hurt, Ian steps forward again.  This time Mickey shoves him away with both hands.

"No," he says firmly, looking directly into Ian's eyes.

Rejection stings Ian's eyes and all of the emotions he's been carefully holding in all day pour out of him.  Angry tears fill his eyes. 

"Why not?" he cries.  "You want me!  I know you do!"

"Of course I want you," Mickey yells back, dodging Ian again as Ian reaches for him in vain.  "I'm always gonna fucking want you!  But I'm not doing this again!"

"Why not?" Ian asks again.  Mickey growls and yanks his hands through his hair. 

"You have a boyfriend, Ian!"

"We broke up," Ian insists automatically.

This gives Mickey pause.

"When?"

"Uh," Ian hedges.  "Yesterday."

Mickey's already agitated face turns thunderous.

"So what am I, your fucking rebound?"

"No!" Ian cries.  "Never!  I only want you, Mickey.  It's always been you!"

Mickey's chest is heaving and his fists are clenched.  He swipes angrily at his eyes.

"Real fucking convenient for you to figure this out right now, huh?  You couldn't bother to visit your pathetic ex in prison, but now that I'm out and your life is fucked up you just expect me to come running-"

"No!" Ian says again.  He can hardly see through his tears.  "I know I should have- it was hard for me, Mickey, I-"

"Oh, it was hard for you, huh?  Hard for you to keep living your life, get on fucking _meds_ , which you told me was the reason we couldn't be together, get a sweet ass job and move the fuck on while I rotted in jail for _you!"_

Ian can say nothing.  He just stands there and chokes on his sobs.

"Everything I've done, I've done for you," Mickey tells him, softer now.  "Now I'm doing shit for me."  His eyes are sad and determined.  He rubs the tears out of his eyes, then turns and heads in the direction of the Alibi.

He doesn't look back.

It takes a long time- several minutes after Mickey has turned the corner- for Ian to catch his breath.

How can Ian's life have gone so spectacularly to shit over the course of two days?

He deserves it.  He deserves every last bit of it.

As Ian trudges slowly toward the Gallagher house, he resolves.  He resolves to make things better with Mickey, no matter how long it takes.

No one knows him better, no one has loved him more than Mickey has.  Even if he might not any longer.

Ian stops dead in his tracks as he swings the chain link gate open in front of the house.

Phil is sitting on the front steps.

"Hi," he says, standing as Ian comes through the gate.  Ian nods thickly.  "Fiona called me.  I'm so sorry, Ian."

Ian nods again.  He's not sure he can speak.  He's not sure what will come out of his mouth if he does.

"Look," Phil says, "I know we've got a lot of shit between us, and I'm not saying it's definitely going to work.  But I wanted to know that I'm here for you.  If you need me."

God, Ian doesn't deserve him. 

"I'm sorry," he says when his mouth finally moves.

"Me too," Phil hurries to say.

"No," Ian interrupts, shaking his head.  "I'm sorry for everything.  For not being a good boyfriend.  For lying to you."  He swallows.  "And for leading you on."

Phil shifts his weight.

"What are you saying?" he asks, voice higher than usual. 

"I need to figure some shit out," Ian tells him.  

"By yourself? Or with Mickey?"

Ian sighs.

"I don't deserve Mickey right now.  I don't deserve either of you."

"But if you were going to be with someone-" Phil prompts.  "You'd choose him?"

Ian looks at the ground.  A tear lands on the top of his sneakers. 

"Yeah," he says finally.

They don't speak for a long time.

"I want to keep the apartment," Phil says finally, sniffling.  "Okay?"

Ian nods.

"I'll come pick up my stuff soon."

"No rush," says Phil.  "After the funeral.  D'you- want me to come?"

"No," Ian says honestly, and he looks up, hoping he didn't hurt Phil's feelings.

Too late for that, he supposes.  

"Take care of yourself, Ian," Phil says softly.

Jesus, Phil even handles break ups with class.  

"You're so good," Ian tells him.

"Not good enough for you," Phil says, shrugging and fighting back his tears.

"Too good for me," Ian insists.  "I love you."  Maybe it's cruel to say, but he means it.  It's just not enough. 

He and Phil give one another a lingering hug, and Ian's tears soak a spot in Phil's shoulder just like they'd done to Mickey.  

Then Phil gets in his car and drives away.

When Ian enters the house, every one of his siblings is standing there in wait, various levels of shock and sadness on their faces.  Clearly they'd heard everything.  

Ian can't bring himself to care.

It's Lip who breaks the silence.  

"Movie marathon.  Frank's favorites."  He holds up a few sleeves of pirated DVDs.  

"Frank liked movies?" Ian asks in surprise.

"Who fuckin' knows, really," Lip breathes, pulling Ian down onto the couch.  After a beat the others take their places.  Fiona discreetly wipes at her eyes.  Carl punches Ian in the shoulder.  "What matters is we're all together," Lip finishes.  

Ian doesn't really watch the movie (The Big Lebowski, it turns out, which Frank probably did like at one time).  Instead he thinks about Mickey, and how he can possibly begin to make up for lost time.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Ian


	17. Chapter 17

Ian: mid August

* * *

His family hovers around him in the next few days as they scramble to make funeral arrangements.

They'd elected to cremate Frank and didn't bother with a viewing beforehand. (Too many assholes would show up to piss in the casket, Carl offered irreverently.

He's probably right.)

They also await the arrival of Monica.  Fiona had been the one to make the call. Lip's never had the patience for her and Ian was an obvious no- he tried not to be offended by that unanimous decision.  So  Fiona shut herself in her bedroom and emerged shortly after, face grim.

"She _thinks_ she can be here by Thursday," Fiona had said.  And she and Lip had exchanged a heated, albeit hushed, conversation in the corner of the room.

So they wait.  The funeral is set for Friday whether she makes it or not.  Not that it's much of a funeral.  It's in the Alibi, after all, but it _is_ the most fitting place. 

That's what his siblings are most nervous about- Monica's return- Ian can tell.  Even though the last time they'd all seen her- three years ago now, had been remarkably uneventful when it came to hurricane Monica.  He's not really sure what they think is going to happen- like maybe her mere presence will send Ian off the deep end again.

Ian is legitimately surprised at how well he's managing, all things considered.  He thinks a lot about what Mickey said to him in the diner as two days pass.  

_At least you're upright._

_Be grateful you have people around to help you out._

Ian really, really wants to stay in bed, but with everyone constantly hovering and asking how he's doing, he redoubles his efforts to remain functional.  He even tries to head out for a run one day, but makes it as far as lacing up his shoes before he sits heavily on the couch.

Being out of his routine, away from work and his own bed and Phil is fucking with his head and his mood, and the situation with Mickey is no help, to put it lightly.

He does miss Phil, especially in the quiet moments where he just wants someone next to him- someone who won't press him about how he's feeling but will just _be_ there.

Fiona and Lip each try to press Ian for information about the breakup with Phil and the obvious reason behind it.  Debbie hovers around him, offering him food at every opportunity (evidently she bakes when she's grieving).  And Ian swears Carl gives him knowing glances when he thinks Ian isn't looking. 

Liam's the only one who isn't treating him any different.  He's gone back to being silent, but Fiona either cares less now that she's heard him speak or she's too distracted to notice.  Probably both. 

Ian drafts dozens of text messages to Mickey and deletes each one over the next few days. 

_Can we talk?_

_I'm sorry_

_I love you_

Something holds him back.  He knows Mickey- knows he's got to wait him out.  No good has ever come from Ian trying to force his way in.

The days pass in a haze, until late Thursday night Ian's awoken with a jolt as loud voices trickle up from downstairs.

Clumsily, he grabs his phone and sees it's  only quarter to 11.  Lip's old bed is empty- he hasn't even gone to sleep yet.

The yelling continues- angry male shouts and shrill female shrieks.  The scuffle of a fight.

"Get the fuck out," Carl is roaring. There's a loud slam.

Ian stumbles out of bed, tugs sweat pants on, then moves into the hallway and down the front stairs, dodging the dark stain from Frank's blood.

"Un-fucking-believable," Fiona yells.  She's pacing by the couch, yanking on her dark hair.  Lip and Carl are flanking her, breathing heavy.  Lip is wiping blood from his nose.  And Monica is seated at the couch, head in her hands.

"Great, you woke Ian up!" Debbie chides, emerging from the kitchen with a wet rag for Lip.

They all turn quickly to him.

"What's going on?" Ian asks warily, eyeing the still-aggressive posturing of his brothers.

"Ian!" Monica cries, standing and stumbling toward him.  

Carl steps in front of the stairs.

Monica looks even more worn hard than the last time he saw her.  She's clearly continued to use the hard stuff- it's evident on her still beautiful face and by the fact that she's wearing a long sleeve sweater in August.  Covering her arms.

"Monica invited her junkie friends to crash here for a few days," Fiona supplies angrily.

"They're good guys!" Monica insists, turning her wide eyes to each of her children in turn and sticking on Ian.  "There was just a misunderstanding!" She tries to step up to get to him but Carl blocks her path again.

Ian huffs and pushes past Carl to embrace his mother.  He can feel the eyes of his siblings trained on him hard.

"Hey mom," he says.

"Ian," she breathes.  "How you been, baby?  You look tired."

"You woke him up, remember?" Debbie snaps.

Monica rolls her eyes conspiratorially at Ian. That's not the kind of tired she means.  He gets it.

"On a downswing," he admits, avoiding his siblings' eyes.  "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm doing so good!  I've been staying with these guys on this compound.  It's like a little community!  We grow our own food and we take care of each other- you'd love it!"

"Frank's death really shook you up, huh?" Lip deadpans from behind the washcloth.

"Of course I care about Frank!" Monica cries, rounding on Lip.  "Just because I'm not crying every minute doesn't mean I'm not completely heartbroken!"  Lip just stares at her until Monica cracks.  "You never cut me any slack, Lip," she shrieks at him, wiping away her tears.  "You don't know what it's like to lose the person you love! Until it happens to you, you can't judge me!"

Lip opens his mouth to retort, but Fiona steps in.

"Y'know what?  It's late.  Ian's gotta get back to bed.  We all do.  We've got a long, hard day tomorrow."

Ian untangles himself from Monica and allows himself to be shooed back upstairs while Fiona makes up the couch for their mother.  The house quiets down again.

A great start to the visit.

In the morning, Ian wakes to take his pills and lays there, listening to Lip's heavy breathing. Then he drags himself out of bed and down the back stairs.

Fiona's in the kitchen leaning against the counter and munching from a meat and cheese tray someone had brought over the night before.

"First time in a long time I got up before you in the morning," she teases Ian lightly, but her eyes search his face. 

"I'm fine," he insists, waving her off.  "Just tired.  How's she doing this morning?" Ian inclines his head toward the living room as he sits heavily in a chair.

"Who, Monica? She was gone when I woke up."  Fiona shrugs and brushes cracker crumbs off her shirt.

"Shelia sent flowers," Debbie tells them as she comes into the kitchen with an enormous bouquet.  "I miss her."

Fiona trails her fingers through Debbie's hair.  It's nice to see them getting along.

"Ian," Debbie says suddenly, "do you think Mickey hates me?"

"Huh?"  Ian wasn't expecting _that_.

"Because he got in trouble for Sammi and I didn't."  She stares at the counter.

Oh.

"No," says Ian definitively.  "He doesn't hate you.  He coulda implicated you and he didn't.  Might've even got a lighter sentence if he did."

"Well _that_ makes me feel better," she snorts sarcastically.  But her face twists back into worry.  "Because of me he went to prison for longer.  I'm nervous to see him again," she admits.

 _You and me both_ , thinks Ian. 

 

The "funeral" at the Alibi is jam packed by the time the Gallaghers arrive early in the afternoon on Friday.  There's a huge, unflattering poster board picture of Frank on an easel as they walk in.  There's mismatched bouquets of flowers on the tables and a microphone set up at the back of the bar in front of the bathrooms, so people can get up and share their memories. 

Why anyone thought this was a good idea is beyond him.  Ian prepares himself to hear plenty of awful, possibly vomit-inducing stories tonight.

"In my defense," Fiona mutters as they look around, "I've never planned a funeral for an agnostic, asshole, alcoholic before."

Monica is in her element.  She goes around from table to table thanking people for coming.  A lot of people obviously have no idea what the occasion is.

"Happy birthday," old lady Higgenbothum slurs when Monica greets her.

Ian high tails it to the booth marked _Rezervd_  in Kev's barely legible handwriting.  He tries and fails to keep from looking around the bar for a specific familiar face, but Mickey's nowhere to be seen.

"Monica's high as fuck," Carl says conversationally as he sidles up next to him in the booth.

"When isn't she?" Ian asks rhetorically. But he grips his water glass a little tighter as the familiar breathy lilt of his mother's voice reaches his ears.

"Oh, what a nice turnout," she tells Lip as she trails him over to the booth.  "Frank's always been so loved."

Lip rolls his eyes so hard his eyeballs can probably see his brain.

 

Ian barely listens to the fucked up stories people are telling.  Beside him Carl is laughing so hard he's crying, but Ian's got a perfect view across the bar at Mickey.  He showed up with Yevgeny halfway through Kermit's blubbering speech and now he's sitting on a bar stool watching the gong show while Svetlana works the bar.  She's refilled his glass at least three times by now. 

And even though he could get a glimpse of Ian if he turned his head just a little to the left, Mickey hasn't so much as even glanced in his direction.  At this point (Ian's been blatantly staring for way too long) it's pretty obvious that Mickey's doing all he can not to look at Ian.

"Jesus, could you have a little more chill," Lip taunts in his ear from his other side.  Ian skirts his eyes away and glances guiltily at his brother.  "He know about Phil?" Lip asks him lowly.

Ian nods once.

"You really think it's a good idea to hop back on that merry go round?" Lip asks.

"He doesn't want to be with me," Ian tells him shortly, eyes on the table.  Lip scoffs. "What," Ian snaps.

"I'm just saying.  It's Mickey."

Ian raises frustrated eyebrows at Lip.

"This the same guy who got shot- twice- beat, raped and married off because of you?  Sounds like he doesn't know when to quit." Lip levels Ian with a haughty look.

Ian opens and closes his mouth.

"A round on the house in memory of  Frank!" someone, not Kev, roars, and the bar patrons cheer wildly, interrupting the brothers' conversation.

"Aw jeez," Kev complains loudly.  "Okay, but just one!" More cheers.

"I wanna say something," Monica is saying.  She pushes her way out of the booth and wanders over to the microphone.

"Here we fucking go," Lip breathes.

"Hi everyone," Monica says to the room.  "I want to thank everyone for coming, and for saying such sweet words about my Frank.  He was the love of my life."

Carl snorts into his beer and Debbie swats him.  

"Did she even _hear_ that story of him and the tranny gang bang?" Carl snickers in his own defense.

"And I want to thank my beautiful kids," Monica continues, pointing out the group of them.  "Fiona and Lip, Ian and Debbie and Carl.  Oh! And Liam!"

"Forget anyone else?" someone heckles.

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Monica cries.  "I'm trying to eulogize my husband here!" She wipes at her eyes and turns back to her children.

"I want to thank Fiona, for taking care of Frank when he was sick."

"Of all things to give me credit for," Fiona mutters.  

"And Debbie.  I wish I could have met my granddaughter," Monica croons. "Such a shame you couldn't keep her.  Named after Frank, you know," she tells the audience. 

Debbie goes white, and grips her hands hard around her beer glass.  Carl peels her fingers off of it. 

"Okay," Lip says as he stands, heading for Monica before she can put her foot farther into her mouth.

"Lip," she cheers when she sees him coming for her.  "Isn't he so handsome? Aren't all my boys just so handsome?  Just like their father!  Well, all except Ian."  She giggles as Lip yanks the microphone away from her.

"Let's get some air.  Have a smoke maybe?" he persuades, faux friendly.

"Why did we call her again?" Carl drawls rhetorically as Lip tears Monica away from the makeshift stage.

"Bitch," Debbie grumbles.

"She's still your mom," Ian reminds them sharply.  He hates listening to his siblings bad mouth her, because that could easily be him, if he'd taken a different path in his life.

"Moms can't be bitches?" Fiona deadpans, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm gonna go see about them," Ian grinds out, pushing himself out of the booth and following Lip and his mother ou the front of the bar.

Lip's lighting a cigarette and Monica is looking down at her phone.  They both look up when the door slams behind Ian. Monica grins and Lip grimaces.

"The guys I came to town with want to head to this party," Monica breathes.  "You guys wanna come?"

Lip levels her with his patented icy glare.

"We're not leaving Frank's funeral, Monica."

Monica pulls a face.

"Ten minutes ago you were waxing poetic about losing the love of your life," Lip reminds her sharply, and Monica's face crumples.

"Oh Lip, you don't understand what it's like to lose your soulmate! Frank was the reason I woke up in the morning!"

"You hadn't seen him in years," Lip snaps.  

"You don't have to be with someone every day to know they're the only one for you!" Monica insists.  She turns wide eyes to Ian, who feels frozen under her gaze.  "Ian, baby, you know what I mean, don't you?"

He's startled, as always, the way she can seem to read his mind sometimes.  Puts those feelings and ideas he carries deep in his mind into wilder, crazier, more colorful words. 

"Mom," he says.  They look at each other for a long moment.  "Come back inside with us."

"No," she cries, wrenching her body away from them as if they were trying to physically restrain her.  "I can't think about Frank anymore.  I gotta stay high, keep myself distracted or I'll-" her eyes are wild.  "You understand, Ian."  She grips his arm, desperate.

Yeah.  He does understand.

"Lip," he says.  "Give us a minute, would you?"

"No," Lip refuses through clenched teeth.  "I'm not leaving you alone with her."

"Lip," Ian says again.  "Trust me.  Give me a minute."  He looks imploringly at his older brother.  

Lip purses his lips.  He looks from Ian to Monica, to Ian again.

"Don't do anything stupid," he says.  Ian's not sure if it's him or Monica that Lip is talking to.

Then Lip turns on his heel and leaves them.

"Finally," Monica groans.  "He's a fucking buzzkill.  Let's go."

"Mom," he tries again.  They're still gripping each other's arms.  "I'm not going anywhere.  And you shouldn't either."

"I thought you understood!  You're the only one who used to understand," she cries.  She's looking at him like she doesn't recognize him.  "You're different," she tells him accusingly.  "You let them change you, turn you into a zombie!  Don't you miss feeling, Ian?  Seeing all the colors they way they really are?  Feeling more?" 

"No," says Ian honestly. "I like waking up in the morning knowing I'm not gonna do anything stupid, or hurt the people I love."

"They don't love you if they want to change who you are!  Frank loved me just who I was."  She's sobbing again, great big blubbering tears.

If Frank had really loved her, Ian thinks, he'd have done anything he could to help her get better.

"It's not too late for you," Ian tells her.  "You get on the right meds and you can feel almost as good as before.  It takes some time but-"

"No!" Monica shrieks, shoving him away. "I'm not some robot. I'm a person, with thoughts and ideas and feelings.  I'm not gonna give that up."

"I have all those things," Ian tells her.

Monica shakes her head back and forth, over and over again.

"You think you do, but you don't.  No one in there lets you think for yourself.  I saw you!  They have you on a leash, baby."

"That's not true," Ian says hollowly, but her words cut to the quick.  Again, she's laid his deepest thoughts and fears out in front of him to inspect.

"Come with me," Monica wheedles again.  "Be _you_ again.  It'll be just like old times!"

Like old times.  Like the time she'd heloped him get into that gay club to be baited by those older men.  Like the time she'd helped him forget about everything but himself after the army.

Like the time she'd helped him decide to leave Mickey when she'd picked him up from Military Prison.

"I'm staying here," he tells her firmly.

"Fine," she pouts. "But don't come crying to me when you want out of that box you put yourself in."

"I won't," he insists, both to her and himself.

She sniffles.  Then kisses him on the cheek.

"My beautiful baby boy," she says into his skin.

She turns around and heads down the sidewalk.

"Wait-" he calls after her.  "Do you need any money? A ride?"

"I'll figure it out," she calls back, shrugging. She keeps walking.  "Livin' on the edge is half the fun!"

Ian huffs out a breath of laughter.  Then he swipes both hands down his face.

"Hey," says a familiar voice.  Ian whips around as Mickey steps out of the alley.  "Just out for a cigarette."  He holds the stick, nearly burned down to the filter, up as evidence, lifting his other hand up in a gesture of passivity.

"What did you hear?" Ian demands, racking his brain for whatever they might've said that could be damning.  

"Tuned in about the time she called you a dog," Mickey admits a little sheepishly.

"That wasn't-" Ian rushes to defend Monica's wording, but Mickey interrupts him.

"Yeah, so I paraphrased." He waves a hand dismissively and flicks the cigarette onto the pavement.  "She ain't right, anyway.  You're not a robot or some shit."

"I know."

"Well, good." Mickey breaks eye contact and takes a giant step back as Ian steps closer.  "They don't make you that much different," Mickey tells him suddenly.  "The meds.  In case you were looking for like, an objective opinion or something."

Ian frowns.

"I'm just saying," Mickey hurries to explain himself, "comin' from someone who knows what you were like before, and seeing you now.  Without knowing all the in between shit."  He does that dismissive thing with his hand again.  "It's good.  The meds."  He's rambling, and it's so fucking endearing.  "Guess I'm proud of ya," he finishes.  He scuffs his feet, looks away.

"You guess?" Ian teases.

Mickey's eyes harden just a fraction.  

"Shit's complicated," Mickey reminds him pointedly, abruptly bringing Ian back five days.  

"Mickey-" Ian begins, but he's interrupted by the creak of the front door as Lip returns.

"Ian," Lip says, and Ian ignores the sound of relief that colors Lip's tone.  "Where's-" he stops short when he sees Mickey scowling a few feet away.  Lip raises his brows and says in his usual condescending tone, "Am I interrupting something?"

"Nope," Mickey answers gruffly, spitting on the sidewalk. 

Lip turns to Ian for confirmation, and Ian shrugs.  It few like every time he's about to get somewhere with Mickey, something goes wrong.  Honestly, it's felt like that from the very beginning of their relationship.

"Monica fuck off?" Lip wonders.

"Yup."

The three of them stand there awkwardly for a beat.  Lip shoves his hands into his back pockets and rocks back onto his heels. 

Ian looks to Mickey for some sort of sign that he would have wanted their conversation to continue, but Mickey's face is unreadable as he pushes himself forward.

"I'm heading in.  You two hang out here with your dicks in your hands as long as you want," he says mildly, taking quick steps to the door.

"He wants to see my dick?" Lip jokes lowly as they follow him in.

" _No one_ wants to see that," Ian deadpans.

Their group of family and friends is gathered in a large semi circle when they walk in.  Ian looks around, a little bewildered.  He spots the same expression on Mickey's face as he takes his place next to Svetlana.

"Now that everyone is here,” Svetlana says loudly as Mickey, Ian, and Lip rejoin the large group by the bar. “We have announcement. Good news to share.” She turns and beams at Mickey. Mickey glances quickly at Ian but grins nervously back.

“We're moving!” Yevgeny shouts.

The large group is mostly silent for a moment.

“What?” V cries at the same time as Kev shouts “Where?”

Svetlana falters a bit- clearly this wasn't what she was going to lead with.

“Jesus, it's like twenty minutes away, it's not a big deal. It's just a little closer to the kid’s new school,” Mickey placates the Balls impatiently, huffing. He glances quickly at Ian again and Ian frowns, picking up on his nervous energy.

“Fuck that, what about my rent payments?” Kev whirls on Mickey.

“And,” Svetlana continues gaudily, ignoring Kev’s interruption, “we will need more space for when baby comes!” And she dramatically throws open her black cardigan to reveal a basically nonexistent baby bump.

Ian freezes.

The rest of the gathering erupts, a combination of loud cheers and several “holy shit” and “what the fuck”s and one bawdy “who's the dad?” from Carl.

“Me, asshole,” replies Mickey, scowling. “Who the fuck do you think?”

“Wait-” Fiona begins quizzically, “Did you guys do like, in vitro or some shit?”

“Turkey baster?” Offers Carl helpfully.

“That shit doesn't work, I know from experience,” Kev supplies, and V smacks him.

“Old fashioned way,” Tommy, seated at his usual spot at the bar, suggests, smirking. “Doggy style so he can't see her tits."

"Who the fuck invited you into this conversation?" Mickey practically shrieks at him, balling up his fists in agitated embarrassment.

"You're standing in the middle of the Alibi at Frank Gallagher's funeral," Tommy points out drily.

"He does have point," Svetlana says, shrugging.

“You like fucking chicks too? Nice.” Carl nods approvingly.

"Holy fuck!  No, we didn't fuck!"  Mickey turns to Ian as he says it.  "Tell them we didn't fuck," he orders Svetlana.

"Tried it.  Did not work out so good."  She smirks at Ian.

Ian can only gape in response.

He feels like he's seventeen again. He feels like he did when he stood in front of Mickey in the basement of that VFW as Mickey prepared to marry Svetlana.

He feels betrayed.

Yevgeny's the only other one in the group that looks as unenthused as Ian feels.

"He is not ready to be big brother," Svetlana explains.  "But he will love little sister when the time comes."

"A girl?" Fiona and V shriek excitedly at the same time.  Svetlana shrugs.

"Mother's intuition, I think."

The women launch into rapid fire discussions about baby names and how V still has some girl clothes in the basement.  

Kev rounds on Mickey and starts grilling him about leaving the upstairs apartment.

Lip claps a hand on Ian's shoulder.

"Okay, bud?"  Lip's looking right through him with those stupid piercing eyes, like he fucking understands everything in the universe.

"Fine," Ian snaps.  Mickey meets his eyes.  "Congratulations," Ian says to Mickey with significantly more bite than he intends to convey. Mickey's eyebrows raise in affronted incredulity.

Ian's got to get out of here. He shrugs off Lip's hand and avoids Muckey's eyes as he slips out of the throng of family and friends and back out the front door.  But he only makes it about twenty paces when a voice shouts, "Ay!" and Mickey's storming out of the Alibi after him. 

" _Tell me_ you aren't the one fucking pissed off right now," Mickey seethes.

"Not pissed off," Ian calls back.

"Then why'd you take off like a bitch, huh?"

"Because you're having a baby with a _woman_ ," Ian cries, whirling around finally to face Mickey head on. 

"Why the fuck does that matter?" Mickey shouts back.  They're only feet away from each other now and still screaming.

"It matters because _you're_ gay."

Mickey scoffs.  "I'm pretty fucking aware."

"Then how the _fuck_ is Svetlana pregnant with your kid?" Ian shouts.

" _That's_ why you're upset?  Jesus, what is it with you being jealous of chicks in my life?"  Mickey clenches his fists in frustration.  "We went to a fucking clinic, I jizzed in a cup, they stuck it up in her. That's it.  Don't know why I gotta explain myself to you!"

Ian's anger falters a little at Mickey's explanation.

"But- now you'll be parenting again with her for another eighteen years!  How are you going to live your own life?"

Mickey steps closer, fury still rolling off of him.

"Let me spell it out for you, asshole, since you're too busy thinking about your own fucking feelings. Me and Svetlana are in each other's lives forever because of Yevgeny. She may be a bitch, but she's a real fucking good mom to our kid. And I had to miss a shit ton of important things in the kid's life while I was locked up. So fucking sue me for wanting another chance at it!"

Ian's anger dissipates entirely.

"Didn't think of it like that," he mutters. It makes total sense, really.  Mickey'd missed first steps, first words, first days of schools.  "Thought you were still trying to live a lie."

He can see it now. Mickey smiling down at a brand new baby. Willingly doing domestic shit like diaper changes and stroller rides.  Getting to enjoy all the things he's missed out on.

Ian's always loved Yevgeny.  He could easily love this baby too.

Mickey huffs.

"I ain't that guy anymore.  Haven't been for a long time."

They stare at one another.  The atmosphere between them changes.

"Can we talk about it yet?" Ian asks carefully when Mickey's shoulders have come down from his ears a bit.  He means their conversation that was cut short nearly a week ago. Mickey catches on immediately.

"No," Mickey grinds out.  He digs in his pocket for a cigarette.

"Don't you want to get everything out in the open?" Ian wheedles, a little pathetically.

"Nope," Mickey says again.  He turns his back on Ian as he flicks his lighter. Then he starts off in the opposite direction, away from the Alibi and away from Ian.

"Mickey!" Ian calls after him, panicking. "Mickey, I _love_ you."

Mickey stops dead in his tracks.  

Ian breathes heavily as Mickey slowly turns around to face him. 

For a moment Mickey looks shocked.  His mouth hangs open and his eyes are glassy with unshed tears.  Like he'd never in a million years expected those words to come out of Ian's mouth.  Like it pains him to hear them now.  It probably does.

And Ian feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest, because he knows without a doubt that it's true but he's never had the balls to say it to the one person who mattered.   It had started out as fear.  Fear of rejection, fear of pushing Mickey away. Then it became a test.  He'd willed himself not to be the weak one- afraid Mickey would hold it over his head if he did.  And then, after everything they'd gone through, it became an afterthought.  Just not something they _did._

But Mickey's several seconds of shock gives way to something else, and suddenly Mickey is shaking his head and fucking _laughing_.

Chuckling, really, but the sudden shame and defensiveness still rises in Ian's chest.

"You don't believe me?" Ian demands wetly.

"I dunno, man."  Mickey sobers and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands.  "Maybe today you do.  Who knows how you'll feel tomorrow."

"Mick, I've loved you since I was fifteen years old," Ian insists, voice cracking.

Mickey's face crumbles.

"Ian," he pleads, voice broken.  "Don't."

"Could you let me explain, please?" Ian begs.  "I know that I fucked up.  I know that you probably needed me and I wasn't there for you.  But it wasn't about you!  I couldn't fucking deal with my shit, and I took it out on you."

Mickey says nothing, but his chest heaves with the effort of trying not to break down.  Ian doesn't even try to hold it back.  His tears leak freely down his cheeks.

"I want you to trust me again.  I want to be with you, and even fucking help raise this new baby. Tell me what I can do!"

Mickey stares at Ian's feet.

"What about what I want?" Mickey asks him softly.

Ian's blood runs cold.  He can feel what's coming.

"What do you want?" he asks hollowly.

Mickey says slowly, evenly, "What if I want you to let me go?"

Ian shakes his head. No. No. After all this time, they're supposed to be together. He knows it.

"I can't do that.  I'm gonna fight for you this time," he declares.

Mickey sighs.  He scrubs his hands down his face over and over again.

Then he turns to walk away.

Ian starts to protest, takes a few steps forward to catch up.

"Don't fucking follow me," Mickey says seriously.  "I mean it, Ian."  Their eyes meet, and Ian sees that Mickey can't be pushed further right now.  He's removing himself before he does something he regrets.

Mickey's resolve is cracking, Ian can see it.  It's like Lip said- Mickey always comes back to him.

Ian just has to be patient, and persistent.

"Okay," Ian relents quietly.  "Okay."

He lets Mickey stride away.

This isn't over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: It's all Ian from here (if you hadn't already guessed that!)


	18. Chapter 18

Ian: late August 

* * *

"This is it?" Carl asks, unimpressed, as he, Ian and Lip stand in the living room of what was once Ian and Phil's shared apartment.  "You coulda made like five trips on your own instead of dragging me all the way here."  

"You didn't help him move out of his last boyfriend's place," Lip drawls from behind them.  "There was even less that time. This-" he gestures to the handful of cardboard boxes stacked in the corner of the room, "is progress."

"Shut the fuck up, both of you," Ian grumbles.  He's been in a shitty mood for weeks and their ribbing doesn't help.

"These aren't even fucking heavy!" Carl stands with a box in his hands.

"Yeah, well, they're mostly clothes," Ian admits.

"You must be a dynamite lay for all these dudes to just let you move in and use their shit without bringing anything to the table." Carl takes two large boxes under his arms and heads for the door.  "Don't hurt yourselves, princesses," he calls over his shoulder.

Lip shakes his head wryly.

"Think he's been hanging around Mickey too much.  He's an even bigger asshole than usual."

Ian ignores the jab at Mickey.  He's still hung up on what Carl said.

" _All these_ _dudes_?" Ian repeats.  "What the fuck did he mean by that?" 

"C'mon, man, you know how you are."  Lip bends at the waist and attempts to pick up a box.  "Jesus! Of course Carl get the fucking light ones.  What the fuck is in this, bricks?"

"Books and DVDs I think.  What do you mean, I know how I am?" Ian presses. 

"You've just been in a lot of serious relationships," Lip dismisses.  "How the fuck haven't you learned by now to label your moving boxes?" Lip bends his knees this time and heaves the box in his arms.

Ian stares at Lip's back as he disappears out the open front door.

He thinks back to all of the relationships he's had since Mickey.  All of them had involved moving in together quickly and ended with Ian returning to the Gallagher home when things went south.

The majority of them had been legitimately nice guys, much like Phil.  But there hadn't been that spark, that lurch felt in his gut whenever they made eye contact.

Ian had barely remembered what that felt like until now.  And he feels guilty, thinking about Mickey while he stands in his ex's place, the home he'd called his own for over a year.

"You haven't even moved since I left!" Carl says, mildly indignant as returns.

"So I'm having a moment, give me a fucking minute," Ian snaps back.  He swears Carl's been unusually short with him lately, and he can't help but think it has something to do with Mickey.  Ian has only seen him once since the funeral when he'd trailed Carl to the Alibi one night a week ago.  Mickey had high tailed it out of there the moment he saw Ian, and Carl had been irked.

Now though, Carl looks a little chagrined because of his caustic behavior today.

"Sorry man," he says.  "Must be hard to be here."

Ian sighs.

Carl stacks two more boxes precariously on top of one another.  There's only one left now.

"We'll wait for you out front," Carl tells him from behind the boxes.  

Then he leaves Ian to it.

Ian doesn't linger long.  He'd spent enough time wandering the apartment and replaying memories when he'd been packing.  They'd had lots of good times, he and Phil, and remarkably few bad times.  If Mickey hadn't returned...well, there's no use thinking about that.

Ian takes one last look around. Then he takes the apartment key off his keychain and leaves it in the middle of the counter.

When he comes through the main door of the building with the last box, Lip and Carl are leaning against Lip's Lexus passing a cigarette back and forth.

"Alright?" Lip asks him, tossing his butt and taking the box from Ian's arms.

"Yeah," Ian breathes. It's a strange feeling, to be sad, relieved, and optimistic at the same time. "Let's go."

He texts Phil as they pull away from the building.  Phil had gone away for the weekend to give him time and so they wouldn't have to see one another.

_all done.  left key on counter_

Phil responds as Lip is pulling onto the freeway.

_thanks.  Have a good life Ian.  Hope everything works out for you._

Ian's chest constricts.  This is goodbye for good.

 _you too_ he replies.

 

"Thanks guys.  I'll buy you a beer for your trouble at the Alibi," Ian offers his brothers as nonchalantly as possible when they've finished unloading the boxes in their old shared bedroom back at the Gallagher house.

Now that this is dealt with, he needs to see Mickey.  

"Sure," says Carl immediately, never one to say no to free booze.  Lip raises a brow at Ian, but shrugs in acquiescence.  They pound down the stairs together, stepping over the stain in turn.

Lip hadn't pressed Ian for the reason he'd returned, sans Mickey, to the Alibi fifteen minutes later red-eyed and worked up after Svetlana's announcement the day of the funeral.  But he shoots him these knowing looks all the time now when they see each other (not often- at two separate Sunday family dinners and just today, to help Ian move), like he's just waiting for Ian to crack and lay it all on him.

Maybe Ian will take him up on it soon.  It's a lot of shit to deal with.  Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Mickey's face, shocked and emotion-filled. He hears Mickey's voice, over and over: _what if I want you to let me go?_

"Oughta buy me _two_ beers for wasting my time," Carl grumbles as they head in the direction of the bar.

"Don't push your luck," Ian snarks back.

Ian doesn't even have to glance around to find Mickey in the less-than busy bar when they enter.  He's behind the counter, evidently acting as bartender for the moment.  He's shoving a beer roughly towards an old man on a stool in the corner.

Mickey looks up when he hears the door open, already scowling. When he sees who it is he freezes, panic rising for a moment as he locks eyes with Ian for one long second.  Then he tears his eyes away.  

"Don't start, asshole," Mickey says in greeting, glaring daggers at Carl, who's snickering.  "I'm covering for V while she picks the girls up from the mall."

"That any way to treat paying customers, Mickey?" Lip jibes.  "Keep it up and you won't be getting any tips."

"Y'know, I just finished with the rat poison in the basement," Mickey says conversationally. "My hand might accidentally slip over your glass."

"Jonesing to head back to the big house that bad, huh?" Lip deadpans.

Ian stiffens.  He'll have to kill Lip for that later.

But Mickey, with remarkable self control considering the jab, only levels Lip with a glare and says sharply, gesturing to the bar, "I only do shots and beer."

"No blended margaritas?" Carl drawls.

Mickey gives him the finger.  "Here's your blended margarita."

He grabs two glasses from under the bar and fills them up from the nearest tap without asking what they want.

"You?" he addresses Ian for the first time, glancing at him from under his lashes and swallowing.  He's nervous.

"Maybe like, half?" Ian asks, gesturing with his fingers.

"So what's the occasion?" Mickey directs his question at Carl as he puts Ian's drink in front of him.  He ignores Ian's soft " _thanks"._

"Moved Ian out of his old man's place," Carl says, belching.

"What for?" Mickey asks.

Ian's not sure if Mickey's playing dumb or  if he really thinks Ian was bluffing about everything. 

Both options piss him off.

"I told you.  We broke up."

Mickey hums noncomittally. 

"You guys good here?" he asks, leveling his gaze somewhere between Ian and Lip's shoulders.

Carl and Lip nod once in unison, then swivel their heads to look back and forth from Mickey to Ian.  But Mickey doesn't stick around to give them a show.  He turns and heads back out from behind the bar, then disappears around the corner.

"Ian," Lip warns just as Ian begins to raise himself from his stool.

"Fuck off, Lip," Ian says over his shoulder as he hurries to catch up with Mickey.

Mickey didn't make it far.  Ian finds him in the store room, crouched with his back to Ian as he fumbles for something on a low shelf.

"Mickey."

"Jesus-" Mickey yelps in surprise, banging his head with a crash as he makes to stand.  "What the fuck?" He returns to his full height, rubbing the top of his head and scowling.

"Sorry," Ian tells him, wincing in sympathy.  "What were you doing?"

"Working, what do you think? Fuck, this shit's gonna bruise." He hisses. 

"Never knew you had such work ethic," Ian teases.  

"Yeah, well, I don't got a gangly fuckin' red-head distracting me any more," Mickey shoots back.  His tone isn't quite jovial, but it isn't biting either.  Ian takes that as a win.

"Like Carl said, I'm back home for a while," Ian tells Mickey, scratching at the back of his head nervously.  "If you wanted to maybe get together.  Talk about some things."

"Nah," Mickey says coolly, but his eyes, darting everywhere but at Ian, give away his nerves. "I'm good."

Ian was expecting this.

"Okay," he says slowly. "I'll ask some other time."

Mickey huffs out a breath.

"Whatever, Gallagher," he mutters, striding toward Ian and moving past him to head back into the main room. 

"Mickey," Ian says, stopping him.  "I still do. I did yesterday too.  And I'm going to tomorrow."

He hopes Mickey understands what he's referencing.  

_Maybe you do today.  Who knows how you'll feel tomorrow._

Judging by the sudden deer in headlights look Mickey is giving him, he gets it.

"Mickey fucking Milkovich!" V suddenly bellows from somewhere in the bar.  "Tell me why you ain't standing behind this bar?"

Their moment is broken, yet again, by an outside force.

"Fuck," Mickey mutters under his breath. "I was refilling the fucking vodka, Jesus," Mickey yells back as he strides out of the room, leaving Ian in his wake without a glance, as he is oft to do.

Ian stands there for a beat, staring at nothing.

"I see what you are doing," a woman's voice, heavily accented, says, so close behind him that Ian jumps.

"Jesus, Svetlana," Ian breathes as he turns to face her.  "Don't sneak up on me like that."

Svetlana glares, arms crossed over her chest as she moves to bar his exit.

"I see what you are doing, orange boy," she repeats.  "You must stop."

"Stop what?" Ian challenges, playing dumb.  It's obvious she heard some or all of his and Mickey's conversation.  And she's sharp- Ian knows she knows something's been going on these past few months.  Probably before Ian himself did.

"You must not toy with him this way.  It is cruel," she asserts.

"Toy with? Svetlana, I love him!  I want to be with him!  This isn't a fucking game!" Ian insists, laying his cards out on the table, anxious to defend himself, to defend _them_.

Svetlana shushes him sharply, jerking her head toward the wall in the general direction of the bar.

"You think that now, but you do not understand what he needs!" she hisses.

"And _you_ fucking do?"  His voice rises again with incredulity. 

"Yes!"

"You might be his wife, but he doesn't love you like he loved me- like he _loves_ me," Ian argues again. 

"He may not be in love with me.  But he respects me and he trusts me because I was there for him when he needed me, and _you_ were not."  She jabs a finger in his face, invading his personal bubble.  Ian takes a step back on instinct (he knows her claws are sharp- literally and figuratively).

"I'm working on it- we need time-"

"He has nightmares, you know," she talks over him.  "He will toss and turn and sweat and yell.  Sometimes he cries.  Sometimes he will call for a man who is not you."

Ian's breath catches in his throat.  The little hairs on his body stand up.  Svetlana continues, either unaware or uncaring that what she's saying has such an effect on him.  "If someone gets too close he might lash out.  He cannot help it.  Do you think that you are strong enough to guide him through these horrible things?  To be there for him when he needs you?"

Ian can only stare, unmoving.

"You are not the strong one," Svetlana tells him, her tone softening as she takes in his expression.  "You are not what he needs."

She stares into his eyes for several seconds, then turns on her heel and stalks out of the back room.

Ian listens to the rushing of blood in his ears as he stands there, absorbing what she has said.

Ian swallows the tears that threaten to fall. He's always suspected, ever since the Independence Day party, that things were not as good as Mickey had made them seem during his incarceration. Mickey himself had hinted at it a few times. But hearing how Mickey is suffering now, in the present, is different.

 _Can_ he be the strong one?  Bipolar aside, Ian's always been the one to let people take care of him in his romantic relationships.

Mickey deserves to be the one who's taken care of this time.

Ian takes off out the back door, leaving his brothers to pay the tab.  He's got more important things to do right now.

 

"Hey," Fiona greets him cheerfully as he comes down the stairs in the morning  with his work duffle bag. She's buttering toast for herself.  "Want me to put a few slices down for you?" 

"Yeah, thanks."  He yawns into his hand. He'd stayed up late last night poring over information on the internet.

"So how's the commute going?" she asks him as she puts more bread in the toaster.

"Sucks.  But it won't be for much longer."  

Fiona raises her eyebrows in concerned surprise, which she quickly masks as happiness.

"Oh?  You seein' someone already?"

Ian inwardly huffs.  His whole family's seen right through him this whole time and never bothered to tell him he had serious attachment issues?

"Been thinking about getting an apartment by myself.  Maybe a roommate.  I haven't decided yet."

Fiona grins through a mouthful of toast.

"Ian, that's so great!"

"You that ready to see me go?" Ian teases.

Fiona brushes crumbs off her blazer.

"Course not- you're always welcome here.  It's your house too.  It's just so nice to see you-" she fumbles for the right words "-takin' care of your own needs."  She brings him his toast and pats at his hair.

Ian gives her a quizzical look.

"You know-" she works to explain.  "Like, providing for yourself.  Buying your own furniture. Ownin' your own spatula."

"Those _are_ very important," he teases, cutting her some slack, because he gets it.  He gets what she means, and she's right.

"Can't make pancakes without it!"  She ruffles his hair again and he swats her away.  "Want to take that toast to go and head to the El with me?" Fiona asks him as she rinses her dishes in the sink.

"Yeah, sure."  He wraps his toast in a napkin and grabs his duffle.  After a minute or so of companionable silence as they lock up behind them and head down the street, Ian clears his throat. "Uh, can I ask you something?"

He'd come home from the Alibi and dived into research. He'd started by googling "how to help former inmates" and ended up reading research article after research article about signs and symptoms of PTSD.

Fiona's eyebrows go up. 

"Yeah," she says, voice carefully light.  "Course."

"I was uh- doing some research last night.  And I found this woman- this shrink.  Who specializes in PTSD."

Fiona looks legitimately confused by this turn in topics.

"You think you have PTSD?" she asks, brows furrowed.

"Not me.  Mickey.  It's common in inmates too," he recites.

"So this shrink."  She leaves her phrase hanging there, frowning.

"Thought I'd make an appointment.  Go talk to her."

"To talk about Mickey?"  She's trying, Ian can tell, to keep an open mind.  But she's never been big on the idea of therapy.

Ian nods.  "Svet told me some things.  He's not dealing too well sometimes.  And I want to help him.  I need to show him that I'll be there for him."

"Mickey know you're doing this?"

Ian shakes his head.

Fiona stays silent for a beat as they climb the stairs to the station.  It's clear from the set of her lips that she doesn't think keeping it from him is a great idea.

"So you and Mickey huh?" she finally asks, giving him a small smile.

He thinks about what Svetlana said.   _Sometimes he calls for a man who is not you._

"Yeah," he answers, ignoring the pain in his chest.  "I mean, I hope so, eventually."

Fiona nods.

"Had a feeling.  Even before your break up with Phil."

Ian rolls his eyes.

"You know, you guys shouldn't have listened in on that."

Fiona barks a laugh.

"We were all standin' in the living room! You expect a Gallagher not to eavesdrop when they get the perfect opportunity?"

Ian's got a much longer train ride than Fiona.  Before she gets off at the next shop, she squeezes his forearm.

"I think you're doin' the right thing. Tryin' to be there for him.  He deserves it."

It's probably the nicest thing Fiona's ever said about Mickey.

They smile at one another, and she leaves him to his thoughts.

 

Predictably, he can't get an appointment with Dr. Arnold for another three weeks.  He spends his time apartment hunting near his and Phil's old neighborhood. As much as it would be nice to be closer to Mickey, it's just not realistic for his job.  And Mickey's still been giving him the brush off.

On week two of waiting for his appointment, he responds to an add for a roommate.  It's a woman named Violet.  She's got hair the color of her name.

They meet at a coffee shop so she can "decide if he's a creep or not".  She tells him she's a theater major and her old roommate just moved to New York for fall semester.  She's supposed to be back in the spring, but Violet says, "it's _New York_.  She won't be coming back.  Besides, you snooze you fucking lose."

As she chatters away, Ian grins to himself.  Violet reminds him of Mandy and he loves her already.

"I don't fuck dudes," she warns him as she leads him to her place.  "So don't bother coming on to me."

"Well, I exclusively fuck dudes, so no worries on my end," he shoots back, and they grin at each other.

The apartment is nothing special, but it's clean and bright and furnished with Violet's things.  All he'll have to supply is his bedroom furniture, which is great for his wallet.

"This is the first time living on my own," Ian tells her as they stand at the kitchen island.  "Like, without a boyfriend."

She gives him a bewildered look.

"How old are you?"

"Uh, almost 27."

"Just get out of a breakup?"

He nods.  Then he shrugs.

She laughs.

"I like complicated.  It's interesting," she tells him.

"Then I'm probably the most interesting guy you'll ever meet," he deadpans.

He hands over his half of next month's rent on the spot, and a week later, he's moving in.

"Dunno why you bothered unpacking last time," Carl grumbles good naturedly as he helps Ian move his measly few boxes into the still empty bedroom.  "Dude, where's your bed?"

"Being delivered tomorrow.  I'm crashing on the couch tonight."

"So where's your chick roommate?  She hot?" Carl asks, looking around.

"She's a lesbian."

"Nice."  Carl grins.

The alarm on Ian's phone chimes, reminding him he's got to head to his first appointment with Dr. Arnold.

"I gotta go," he tells Carl.  "I owe you dinner for helping me."

"This is bullshit," Carl complains.  "Next time you ask, I'll be busy."

"No you won't."

They head down the stairs together.

"Hey," Carl says, almost as an afterthought.  "Mickey and Svetlana are moving next weekend too.  If you wanna come help."

"Already?" Ian asks, surprised.

"Fucking finally, you mean.  I had to help him repaint the whole interior.  Took weeks!"

By now Ian is familiar with the shot of jealousy that courses through his veins whenever he's reminded how close Mickey and Carl have become.  He pushes it down and asks, "nice place?"

"Eh, it's nicer now.  Still pretty shitty though.  Not like Mickey's gonna be approved for anything really great cuz of the background check."

"Right." Ian's mouth goes dry.

"So where ya headed?" Carl asks as they hit the street.

For a moment Ian considers lying.

"Doctor appointment."

Carl frowns.

"You sick?"

Ian shakes his head, then taps his temple.  "This kinda doctor."

Carl stares at him, then repeats, "you _sick_?"

"No," Ian insists.  "Just consider it like... preventative care."

Carl blinks.  

"Sure," he says finally.  "Hope it helps."

They say their goodbyes and go their separate ways.  But now that Carl isn't next to him to distract him, Ian's nerves emerge.

Should he be doing this?  Is he betraying Mickey's trust?  Will this only make things worse?  What if she thinks Ian's acting crazy and she has him forcibly committed?

Okay, that last one is irrational.  Ian forces himself to breathe in his nose and out his mouth as he sits on the city bus.

One meeting with a shrink won't hurt.  He doesn't have to go back.  He's just gonna see if this'll help.

For Mickey, he's got to try.

 

The psychiatric office is like others he's been in. Painted and decorated to look warm and unassuming.

Dr. Arnold's patient room is dark and lit by lamps. There's an assortment of furniture to choose from. Ian takes a seat at one end of the couch and Dr. Arnold perches in an armchair across from him.

There hadn't been a photograph of her on the website. She's older than he'd imagined, closer to fifty than thirty. But she's thin and fit and had sharp features and kind eyes.

"So Ian," she says, after introductions are done. "Tell me why you're here."

"Well, uh. I found you online. Doing research for my ex."

She hums noncomittally and jots something down.

"Tell me about them."

"Well, he uh- just got out of prison? About seven months ago."

"How long was he in prison?" she asks, not looking up as she takes notes.

"Eight years."

The pen doesn't even pause. Her expression stays blank. He expected some sort of reaction, but he supposes she's a professional working with a population of people who probably do jail time.

"You say he's your ex. Tell me about that."

"We were together before he went in. For a couple of years. You probably saw- in my file- I'm bipolar." He flushes.

"I did see that," she says, smiling. "Does your diagnosis have something to do with your breakup?"

"Pretty much everything," Ian breathes.

"Let's back up," Dr. Arnold suggests, rearranging herself on her chair. "Talk a little bit about your own mental health history."

Ian balks. He shouldn't be surprised, but he's not sure he's ready.

"I just wanted to see how I could help my ex through some shit," he backtracks. "I came here cuz I think he might have PTSD."

Dr. Arnold smiles again.

"We'll get there," she assures him. "Trust me. But I need to understand the entire picture. You said so yourself that your Bipolar disorder has impacted one of your romantic relationships in the past."

"I'm managing my disorder," Ian insists.

"I can see that. Have you tried therapy before?"

Ian nods. His face must betray him, because she chuckles.

"I see. So what made you decide to seek help for your partner if you believe therapy didn't help you?"

Ian hesitates.

"It's just- it's important that he gets better." He looks at the floor.

"I understand where you're coming from," Dr. Arnold says after a beat. "But if your ex is truly having difficulty acclimating back into the community, then he's going to need support. And you want to be certain that you're equipped to handle the challenge."

It's remarkably similar, although significantly kinder, to what Svetlana had said to him those weeks ago.

He wants that. He wants to be the strong one, the supporter. He'll have to put himself out there to do it.

Ian takes a deep breath, and starts from the beginning.

Dr. Arnold's pen moves lightning fast on her paper as he speaks. He gets to the part where he's experiencing his first manic episode during basic when she holds up her hand.

"I'll have to stop you there," she says. "That's time for today."

His cheeks color a bit. He'd really been on a roll there.

"I think you made a great choice coming here," Dr. Arnold praises. "And I'd like to see you again, next week. We'll continue where we left off. Is that alright with you?"

Ian blinks. He's surprised by how much lighter he feels all of a sudden, telling his story to an impartial person who isn't his family or his lover.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I can do that."

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an obscure reference to the Office in this chapter, because I have to live up to my namesake. Snaps to you if you find it!

 Ian: early November

* * *

"How are you today, Ian?" Dr. Arnold greets warmly as Ian enters her office. She's already seated at her spot on her purple chair, clip board in hand.  Ian takes his usual seat on the couch across from her.

"Hey, Dr. Arnold."

She jots something down on her paper.  How she's managed to find something to make notes about already is beyond him, but he's pretty used to it by now.

"So tell me what's been going on in the last week."

Ian shrugs.

He's  surprised himself by maintaining his weekly appointments ever since their very first meeting in the middle of September. He's not shocked that he's got a lot to talk about- he has a boatload of issues beginning in infancy and onward.

But it does feel surprisingly good to talk about it all. Dr. Arnold listens without judgement or assumptions and gives him insight into things Ian has never considered.

"Everything still going well with your roommate?" she asks him when Ian doesn't immediately take the reigns in the conversation.

Ian smiles.

"Yeah, Violet's great.  She's been taking me to see some of her theater friends' productions."

"You like theater?"

Ian shrugs.  "Never really got into it before.  Always seemed a little..." Stereotypical.

Dr. Arnold chuckles.

"It's wonderful that you're experiencing new things outside of your romantic relationships," she praises him.  

"Yeah," he agrees.  Aside from working out, he hasn't really had many hobbies over the years.  Just whatever his boyfriends were into.

"Speaking of romantic relationships, have you thought any more about what we discussed two weeks ago?" she asks him.

Had he thought about it?  Only practically every moment of every fucking day.

"Yeah," Ian tells her.  "And I think I- I think I might be ready.  Gonna see him in a few days for Thanksgiving.  Maybe ask if he'll get together."

"I'm surprised you decided so quickly."

Ian looks at his hands.

"Think it's the right thing to do," he says quietly.  He looks up when she doesn't comment.  "Do you?" he prompts.

She holds up her hands in a gesture of neutrality.  She won't answer that, but he can see she doesn't object to the idea.  After all, she had been the one who originally planted the seed.

"Does Mickey seem to be handling himself well?  Has he had any more triggering moments?"

They talk about Mickey often, but he isn't the focus of their discussions.  In the back of his mind, Ian wonders if maybe this whole therapy thing was ever really about Mickey in the first place.

Ian shrugs again.

"I see him just about every week.  He doesn't say much to me.  Definitely wouldn't tell me how he's _feeling_."

He sees him every week, sure. Either through popping by the Alibi unannounced or trailing Carl to Mickey's gym, where he's back to training.  And Mickey gives him the same look every time.  Resigned.  Annoyed.  Scared.

"Remember," Dr. Arnold tells him, "people who are recovering from traumatic events do need to feel supported, and listened to.  And you're showing him that you're available to him should he need you.  But it also can be expected, given your history, that Mickey's feelings of abandonment may override his ability to see you as an ally."

He's heard this from her before, in so many words.  He knows that she has a point, but he doesn't want it to be true.  

He also doesn't want to be part of the reason Mickey hurts anymore.

 

When he gets home from his appointment, Violet's moping on the couch.

"It's official," she moans into a throw pillow.  "I can't afford to go home for Thanksgiving."

"So come with me to my family's," Ian offers, plopping down across from her.

Violet sits up.

"You sure you want to do that? It's a big step," she teases.  Ian throws a pillow at her.

"About time they met my roommate.  There'll be so many people there one extra mouth won't be a big deal."

Violet considers this, then grins.  "Is _Mickey_ going to be there?"

"Fuck you.  If you embarrass me, you die," he warns.

Violet giggles evilly, and for a moment Ian sincerely regrets inviting her along.

On Thursday he and Violet board the El together and head south.  Ian's nervous, not only because he'll be in a room with Mickey for an extended period of time, but because he's going to try to get him to meet up sometime.  If he can manage to drag him away from Carl or Yevgeny, that is.

Everyone except Lip is already there when they arrive.  The Gallagher house is so packed with people that it's hard to find a place to be without falling over someone else.

"Hey," he says into the madness of the living room, where Kev, Carl, Mickey, Liam and the kids are crowded around the television watching the game, occupying every available space to sit.

Only Kev glances up.

"Hey Ian, who's your girlfriend?"

 _That_ gets him a look from Mickey, who's eyes linger on Violet's long, deep purple hair.  Then he turns back aroun again.

"This is Violet, my roommate," Ian says to the backs of their heads.  "Assholes.  C'mon, the girls will be more friendly."  He leads her through the dining room, where several card tables are pushed together, and into the kitchen.

"Sexist much?" Violet mutters, eyebrows raised, as she takes in the obvious gender divide between the men sitting on their asses and the women hard at work.

"We're on cleanup," he tells her.  "We switch on and off every year."

Fiona's hair is wild with heat and humidity from the kitchen.  She, V, and Debbie are hard at work.  Fiona looks flustered, but still manages to stop what she's doing to embrace Ian and Violet.

"So nice to meet you," Fiona tells Violet genuinely.

"Could use more girls around here.  Boys outnumber us," Debbie says from her spot at the counter, where she's mashing potatoes.

Svetlana, seated at the table with her feet on a chair and clearly using her pregnancy as an excuse to beg off kitchen duty, eyes Violet up and down predatorily.  When she catches Ian watching she arches an elegant eyebrow.

They offer to help but Fiona shoos them away, insisting "too many cooks in the kitchen!"  So Ian takes Violet on a tour of his childhood home and they end up lounging on Ian's old bed.

"You remind me so much of Mandy," he tells her for the hundredth time, and to her credit, she only rolls her eyes a little.  "I think Mickey would like you too."

"Which one's Mickey?  I didn't get a good look."

"He's the hot one," Ian says, earning a swat from Violet.  He laughs. "Just look for the knuckle tattoos."  

"I think that pregnant chick wants me," Violet tells him conversationally.

"Svetlana," Ian reminds her. "That's Mickey's wife."

Violet's eyes go wide.  "Okay, you definitely haven't told me everything!"

 

When they're called down to dinner, Lip is there with a meek and sort of plain looking woman he introduces as Katie, his secretary.  She is so far away from what Ian expected that he stares for a beat too long and Lip punches him in the shoulder.

Ian sits on the end, with Violet on his right.  Mickey's on the other side and halfway down, between his wife and son.

"Did they have Thanksgiving in prison, dad?" Yev asks his father as they all begin passing food around the table.

For such a large group, the table goes eerily quiet as they all curiously tune into the conversation.

Mickey clears his throat and shoots an annoyed glance around the table at the rubberneckers.

"Uh, yeah.  We did Thanksgiving.  Not like this, but yeah."

"Real turkey and everything?"

"Dunno if it was real, I guess. Wasn't too bad.  Don't get knives in the joint on account a-" he makes a jabbing motion with his hand, and Yevgeny's eyes widen.  "Had to pick it up and eat it, like this."  Mickey picks up his slice of turkey with both hands and wrenches off a huge bite with his teeth, growling wolfishly.  To his right, Svetlana shrieks as little pieces of turkey land on her.

Yevgeny and Dominic roar with laughter and immediately copy Mickey.

Svetlana barks sharply at them in Russian, and even though only one of the boys knows what she said, they both set their turkey down and stare sheepishly at their plates.  Svetlana has that effect on people.

"We were _supposed_ to go around and say what we're all thankful for before the first bite," Fiona chastises from the head of the table, but she's smiling fondly at Mickey.

"Fuck that, I'm starving."  Carl loads his plate up with more mashed potatoes, then takes a huge bite before Fiona has time to protest.

Ian watches Mickey ruffle Yevgeny 's hair affectionately and thinks back to weeks ago when he and the rest of the Gallaghers and Balls had helped the Milkovich family move.  Svetlana and Mickey were each bundles of nervous, stressed energy and kept having shouting matches every time Mickey and the guys brought pieces of furniture down the steep back staircase.

To get away from the madness, Ian had spent some time helping Yev (who was remarkably calm, considering) pack his room, which was a still unpacked disaster.  He'd peered at Yev's bulletin board with interest and recognized Mickey's neat handwriting in short letters and notes addressed to Yevgeny.  Each one was meticulously dated in the top right corner. There was even a handmade card that said "Happy Birthday" on the front with a pretty decent drawing of a cake with seven candles.

Mickey had really tried hard to keep in Yevgeny's life.  The realization makes Ian's gut twist as he watches Mickey with Yev today and thinks about his own reaction to Mickey's recent baby news.

If anyone deserves a second shot at fatherhood, it's Mickey.

"Ian," Violet whispers in his ear, and Ian drags his eyes away from Mickey and Yev to glance down at his guest.  "You okay?"

"Mm," he hums in the affirmative, looking down at his plate.

He just wants to get his conversation with Mickey over with.   

Ian gets his chance when, after they've begun to clear their plates away, Mickey heads out for a smoke.  Ian grips Violet's elbow and jerks his head in the direction of the front door as Mickey closes it behind him.

Ian grabs his coat and hat and follows him out before he can lose his nerve.

"Smooth trick, going for a smoke break during clean up," Ian jokes as he shuts the front door and stands on the step.  There's only a sprinkling of frost on the ground, but his breath comes out in white puffs of air.

Mickey turns toward him, his lips a thin line.  Then he turns back again, facing the street.

"So what's your excuse?" he snips.

"Needed to talk to you."

Mickey turns sharply toward Ian again, looking as though he can barely suppress an eye roll. 

"So talk," he says through tight lips.

"Not here," Ian says.  "Maybe we could meet up somewhere?  This weekend?"

Mickey drops his cigarette hand down to his side and brings his left hand up to drag over his lips.

"Please," Ian begs quickly, before he can be rejected.  "It's important. And it'll be the last time, I swear."

Mickey hesitates.  Then finally, he nods.

"Saturday," he tells him. 

"Saturday," Ian confirms.  "There's this coffee place between my apartment and your gym.  Jitters. 10 o'clock?"

Mickey sighs.  "Got it."

"Don't look so enthused, Mick," Ian teases, trying for a lighthearted tone.

Mickey snorts and they manage to give awkward half-grimace half-grins to one another.

Ian feels better, now that Mickey's agreed.  Now he's got a few days to plan out what he's going to say.

Mickey watches with guarded eyes as Ian sits heavily on the front step. 

"So a chick roommate huh?"  Mickey changes the subject.  He breathes out smoke and condensation in a spectacular white cloud around his head.

"Yeah.  Violet," Ian reminds him.

"That her real name? Or is it just because of-" he gestures to his hair.

Ian pauses.  "Not sure, actually."  He should really ask her that.

"You tryin' out girls now?" Mickey asks, tone so flat that at first it's difficult to tell whether or not he's joking.  Ian's face must give away his uncertainty, because Mickey rolls his eyes and chuckles.  "Relax, I'm kidding.  Jesus, you're fucking serious today."

It both pleases and puzzles Ian that Mickey would notice and comment on his somber mood.

"Guess I am," says Ian vaguely in response.

"It because of Monica?"  Mickey's eyebrows furrow in concern.

Ian draws a blank for a moment, not making the connection at first.

Right.  Thanksgiving.  Monica.  Suicide attempt.

"Not really," he admits.  He stares Mickey down, and Mickey gets it.  He flicks his eyes away from Ian's face and takes one last drag from his cigarette before flicking it into the yard. 

Mickey's about to head back in.  Ian's time alone with Mickey is ending, and he scrambles for a topic to keep him there a little longer.  

"Yevgeny ask about prison much?" Ian asks.

"Nah," Mickey says, sniffing.  He doesn't elaborate, so Ian presses him a little, thinking about what Dr. Arnold had said earlier in the week about triggers.

"Must be hard for you to talk about it with him."  

Mickey sniffs again, then wipes at his nose with the back of his gloved hand.

"Wasn't all bad," he says finally.

Ian swallows. He feels like a knife is stabbing his heart.

And while he's not certain that it's exactly what Mickey's referencing, he goes there anyway.  He needs to know. And most of all, he needs Mickey to share with him. Trust him with something.

"Tell me. About him," he urges softly. "Please."

Mickey hesitates. He doesn't look totally shocked that Ian's put two and two together, but he does look apprehensive. His gaze flickers over Ian's face several times before he sighs.  Then he begins.

"When I got out of the infirmary, after Terry, we got bunked together.  He was annoying as fuck as first. Always cracking stupid jokes and singing Katy Perry and shit. And he wasn't as-" he pauses, flicks his eyes up and down Ian's body. "He didn't look like you," he finishes awkwardly. Then he adds, "Carl kinda reminds me of him.  Always doing shit to get a rise outta me."  He shakes his head, huffing out a short laugh. 

So that explains their fast friendship, maybe.  Ian wonders if Carl knows about this guy.

"So he's gay?" Ian prompts. "Like- out? Or..."

Mickey huffs.

"He sucked my dick, so what do you fucking think?" he snaps.

"Sorry," Ian says immediately.  "I'm sorry.  I just didn't know if people were like, open with that sort of thing in prison."  He feels bile gurgling in his stomach. 

"Not on fucking purpose," Mickey bites. "Try to keep it on the down low.  But you know how that shit goes."

Ian's gotta chuckle a little at that.  He and Mickey had been caught or nearly caught so many times.  But his laughter stops when he thinks of the last time, with Terry.  That time had been deadly.

"Someone catch you?" he asks, throat dry.

Mickey shakes his head.

"Got in this fight with this huge fucker.  Don't even remember what about.  Anyway, this dude's fucking whaling on me and everyone's standing around watching like they do, and Trav comes in outta nowhere and just starts kicking this guy's face in.  People don't just fucking...insert themselves into something like that.  It was a pretty big fucking sign."  He snorts, but his eyes go out of focus, like he's suddenly very far away, in a memory.

"Trav," Ian tries the name out on his tongue.  "TRK."  The tattoo on Mickey's hip, in such an intimate place.

Mickey's eyes snap back to Ian's face.  He pulls his lips into his teeth and raises his brows, but says nothing.

"You loved him," Ian says slowly.

Mickey scoffs, but doesn't verbally refute him.  His silence is a loud and clear answer.

The stabbing feeling in Ian's heart intensifies. He doesn't deserve to feel hurt, or jealous. But he does.

"So what happened?" Ian asks.  He works hard to fight the jealousy-induced word vomit that's threatening to spill out of his mouth.  Mickey is sharing something important.  He can't ruin the moment.

Mickey takes another cigarette out of his coat pocket and lights it.  He takes a hit, then exhales the smoke.

"He died," he says finally, emotionlessly.

Ian's next inhale feels like shattered glass.

"Mickey," he starts, voice hoarse.  "I'm so-"

"Don't," Mickey interrupts.  "Don't say you're fucking sorry again.  That's all you ever fucking say to me."

Ian's startled.  It's on the tip of tongue to say it again, but he stops himself.

He's silent for a long time.  He doesn't know what he could possibly say.  Finally, "I'm really fucking glad you had someone."  Because that's how he feels, above all.  It does feel better to know that Mickey had had an ally, at least for a little while, during his long incarceration.  It eases the pain of his heartbreak a bit.

But the selfish, horrible part in him is glad Trav is gone.

"Thanks for telling me," Ian says.  "For trusting me with something."

Mickey spits onto the frosted grass.

"We done here?" he asks gruffly.

"Yeah," says Ian quickly.  "Yeah, sure."

Mickey strides up the steps.  The smell of his recent cigarette lingers all over him and surrounds Ian as he passes by him.

"Saturday," Ian reminds Mickey before he turns the doorknob.  Mickey pauses, jerks his chin, then goes into the house.  But he leaves the door open behind him so Ian can come through too.

The gesture feels as much figurative as it is literal, and it gives Ian a sliver of hope.

 

Two days later, at 9:55, Ian sits in a quiet corner of Jitters with a still steaming mug of tea in one hand.  He runs his other hand nervously through his hair.  It's getting long again.  He'll have to cut it soon.

He thinks about Mickey's obsession with his hair.  When it was buzzed short all those years ago, Mickey would scratch his fingernails possessively through it while Ian went down on him.  For Ian it would straddle the edge between pleasure and pain.  And when they would lie together in their bed at the Milkovich house, Mickey would reach out and pet his hair just because, but often right before he fell asleep or when he was feeling particularly affectionate.

He takes a shuddering breath, wondering when it will start to feel less painful to remember moments like these.  He hopes what happens today will start the process.

"Hey," a voice says suddenly, and Ian jerks in surprise.  Mickey plops down in the matching purple velvet chair across from him and sets a duffle bag on the ground by his feet.  He wrenches his cap off his head and shoulders out of his coat.  "Sorry I'm late."

He must have just come from the gym.  He's wearing street clothes but it's obvious by the perspiration spot between his pecs that he didn't take the time to rinse off after his workout.

"You could've showered.  I would have waited," Ian tells him apologetically.

"Nah."  Mickey waves him off.  "Never taking a fucking communal shower ever again."

Ian winces.

"I uh, would have got you coffee but I uh-" Didn't remember how he takes it?   _Black, sometimes a little cream if he needs something sweeter_ , his brain reminds him.

"Don't worry about it.  Ordered when I came in."

Ian's eyes widen.  He must have really been zoned out.

As if on cue, a barista calls, "Mickey?" and Mickey rises to grab his drink.

It's in a to-go cup instead of a mug.  So Mickey was expecting, or maybe hoping, this wouldn't last that long.

Ian swallows the lump in his throat.

"Thanks for meeting me."

"Yeah well, you said so yourself this is the last time.  I'm ready for you to quit fucking stalking me," Mickey says without any heat. 

Ian chokes out an embarrassed laugh.

"Sorry."

Mickey shrugs, but his eyes are serious.

"You said it was important."

Ian nods.  Swallows again.

Might as well dive right in.

"So I started seeing someone again," Ian begins, finger tracing the condensation on the lip of his cooling mug. He looks up after a long beat of silence and Mickey is staring at him, both brows high on his forehead.

"Congrats," he says shortly. "That's what we fucking came here for?"

"Shit," breathes Ian, catching on to his wording and slamming a palm to his forehead. "I didn't mean it like- she's a woman. A shrink. I'm seeing a woman psychiatrist. I'm not dating anyone."

"Gotta be like some sorta record for you, huh?" Mickey teases, tone a little too biting. "Being single this long."

It's actually sort of true, but Ian chooses to ignore the barb and soldiers on.

"She's been helping me work through some things. Getting me back on track.  Take ownership of my life, and all that psychoanalytic shit."

Mickey's expression turns serious again. He nods.

"That's real good."  He's so sincere about it.  All these years, while Ian's treated him like garbage, Mickey's just wanted the best for him. "So is _that_ what you came here to tell me?" Mickey prompts again after they've stared at each other for nearly half a minute.

"Uh, no.  I mean it's related I guess. Dunno if I'd have gotten there on my own." He takes a breath.  "I've been thinking a lot about what you said you wanted.  That night.  Frank's funeral."

Mickey looks down at his cup, then back up at Ian.  His expression is unreadable.

Ian continues, "I started seeing that shrink for you, in the beginning.  Thought maybe I could get someone to help _me_ help you deal with everything that's going on with you.  And that maybe that would be enough.  But I see the way you look at me, Mick.  And me trying to worm my way back to you is only hurting you more.

"If I really loved you, then I'd listen to what you wanted.  And I do- I really fucking love you, Mick.  So I'll let you go.  If that's what you want me to do. I'll do it."

Mickey's jaw is slack and his eyes are damp.  He clears his throat.

Ian wipes at his leaking eyes, regretting coming to a public place to do this.

"Fuck," Mickey says finally, voice thick.  "I don't even- fuck.  Thank you."

Ian nods slowly.  He scrubs at his face.  He's about a minute away from completely losing it, and he'd like to get out of here before that happens.

"I know we'll see each other around a little.  But I'll try to- try to keep my distance."  He stands, fumbles for his coat.  His tears are blurring the edges of his vision.  "Have a nice life, Mickey."

He doesn't give Mickey a chance to respond.  He's got to get out of there before he breaks down more than he already has.

It's like all the times he's lost Mickey before, to juvie and to Terry and Svetlana and bipolar and prison, combined and multiplied by the thousands.

He shouldn't have done this on a weekend.  He can't even call Dr. Arnold to talk things through until Monday.

"Hey!" someone yells behind him, heavy footsteps echoing on the pavement as they rush to catch up.  "Ian! Fuck!"

Ian turns when Mickey yanks on his arm.

"The fuck you run out for?" Mickey demands.  

"I couldn't sit in there any longer," Ian sniffles.  "And I respect your decision, but I really can't do this here either."  He turns to go again, but Mickey's grip on his arm tightens.

"Jesus, why am I always the one running after you?" he pants.  "You didn't even give me a chance to fucking talk before you took off!"  He removes his hand from Ian's arm when he's sure Ian won't try to leave again.  "Listen."  He stops talking for a beat, and focuses somewhere around Ian's shoulder when he says, "People haven't given a shit about what I want for a long fuckin' time. I think- I think I just really fucking needed to hear you say it.  That it mattered to you.  What I wanted."

Ian's confused and over emotional.  They're still standing two feet apart on the sidewalk, and someone brushes past them at that exact moment.  Mickey steps closer to avoid contact with the stranger, then doesn't back up again.

"When I said that- about wanting you to let me go- I meant it, I thought."  Mickey scrubs his forehead.  "But I don't think I want you to just walk the fuck out of my life.  Disappear again."

Ian's heart stutters.  The tiny sliver of hope he'd felt days ago burns warm in his chest again.

"What are you saying?" he stutters. 

"That I need some fucking time, first of all.  Without you popping up in places you ain't supposed to be.  Give me some fucking space, alright?"

"And then?" Ian presses.  Mickey shrugs.

"Shit's probably always gonna be complicated.  But maybe we could try to be friends or something."  He rubs the back of his neck.

"Friends.  Or something," Ian repeats, emboldened. 

" _Friends_ , maybe," Mickey emphasizes, but the corner of his lips quirk up.

"Okay," Ian says quickly.  "I'll leave you alone.  I can do that."

Mickey nods.  Ian wipes at his eyes again.

Because Ian can't help himself, he says, "I want you to be able to trust me again. And I know I broke your trust and I know rebuilding doesn't happen overnight. But I want you to know that if you wanna talk about things that happened- or anything. You can call me."

"Easy there, Gallagher.  One step at a time here."  Mickey's tone is teasing, but his eyes are appreciative.  "All that therapy shit really sunk into your head, huh?"

"Are you mad?" Ian asks timidly.  "That I talk to my shrink about you?"

Mickey frowns.

"Ain't that the point of therapy?"

A little more tension leaves Ian's body.

"Ten years ago you'd have kicked my ass for telling someone your business," he jokes, but it's the truth.

"Yeah well, ten years is a long time," Mickey says.  

_Fuckin' lie if you have to, man.  Eight years is a long time._

"I'll wait for you this time," Ian promises.  "As long as you need.  But as soon as you know-" he stops.

"Yeah," Mickey agrees.  He gnaws on his lip.  "I get it.  Being in limbo sucks worse than rejection."

_Will you? Wait?_

Ian wants to apologize until he's blue in the face.  He wants to fall on his knees and beg forgiveness.  But Mickey doesn't want to hear that anymore.  He wants to move forward.

Ian is in awe of him- his resilience and his strength.  He'll live the rest of his life trying to catch up to Mickey in that aspect.

Silence falls on them awkwardly after that.  Mickey shifts his weight. Ian pulls his gloves out of his coat pocket.

"So we're good," Mickey says finally.  "You'll quit trailing me and I'll keep you in the loop?"

"Okay," Ian agrees. "Thanks." 

Mickey's got to turn around to retrieve his bag from the coffee shop, and Ian's apartment is in the opposite direction.  So that's that.  It feels a little anticlimactic, actually.

When Ian gets home, Violet is waiting for him, perched on the arm of the couch in anticipation.

"Oh," she says when she sees his tear-streaked face.  "That bad, huh?"

Ian shakes his head.  

"I don't think so.  I'm not sure yet."

"What do you mean? Details please, I'm dying over here!"

Ian flops down on the couch next to her, not even bothering to remove his coat.  Violet moves him around like a giant rag doll to take it off for him.

"I told him that I'd let him go if he wanted.  And he looked- surprised.  Touched.  He told me thanks."

"Well, fuck," Violet articulates.

"And then I ran out and he followed me and basically told me that it wasn't over but he needed more time," Ian finishes in a rush.

"Aww," Violet coos.  "You guys are totally characters from The Notebook.  You're going to die at the exact same time when you're old and gray."

"He wants to try to be _friends_."

Violet makes a face.

"Gross."

Ian sighs and pulls at a string on the cuff of his Henley.  He thinks there might be more.  He's hoping for more, but he can't be sure.

"I'll take it, if it's all he can give me."

Violet flops against Ian's shoulder.  "So what're you gonna do in the meantime?  Keep up the dry spell for a guy who _might_ want to be your friend in the future?"

"Dunno.  Gonna try, I guess."

"You think _he's_ being celibate while he figures shit out?" she challenges teasingly.

He hits her with a pillow.

"Fuck off, I don't wanna think about that!"  

Violet giggles and they settle against each other again.

"Let's order pizza and watch a movie," Violet suggests.  "Get your mind off things."

It doesn't work, of course.  While Violet is absorbed in the artsy independent film she chose, Ian's mind wanders.  

He'd told both Mickey and Violet that he'd be alright with just being Mickey's friend, but he wonders if he'll be able to do it when the time comes.  To watch Mickey one day find someone new? To bring their significant others to family events and act naturally around one another?

He confesses his feelings to Dr. Arnold a few days later during their regular appointment, after he shares what had happened at the coffee shop.

"It's perfectly within your right to feel this way, Ian, and you shouldn't feel pressured to pursue a friendship with Mickey if it will be painful for you."

"So what, he's finally able to look at me without hating me and I turn around and give him an ultimatum?"

"I understand where you're coming from.   I do.  You clearly want to do all you can to make Mickey happy, but you have to remember to keep yourself happy.  You've made mistakes in the past, but you don't need to punish yourself forever.  And I don't know Mickey personally, but based on what you've shared with me, I think he would agree."

Ian sighs.  Maybe she's right.

All he can do is wait, and cross that bridge when he comes to it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Ian's decision in the coffee shop didn't seem too out of left field. I wanted there to at least be a little suspense built for the reason Ian wanted to meet Mickey. And even though we didn't see a lot of it directly, the intention was for it to read like Ian's spent these past few months growing up a little- taking care of himself. His own personal journey.
> 
> And let's talk about Mickey's reaction too, because although I tried, Mickey just wasn't articulate enough to get the job done on his own. All Mickey really needed to hear (whether he knew it or not) was a confirmation of being heard, respected. And that Ian was willing to make a sacrifice for him. Not to say that Mickey's just going to roll over now, but he's willing to open his mind to it now more than ever.
> 
> This is what I love about fan fiction! The opportunity to directly dialogue with readers, explain yourself, go back and edit... and make friends! I'll definitely be sad when this ends. I'm already sad. One more to go!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words cannot express how my experience with this story, in this fandom, has brought me joy. I hadn't written anything since before my first child was born three years ago, and this is the longest piece I've ever completed. I had no idea how much I needed the creative release.
> 
> And I could not have done it without the support of all of you who took time to read. So thank you, truly, for the kudos and comments. It's given me such pleasure to write something that speaks to people. I appreciate you all!
> 
> See you on the other side. 
> 
> <3, Lan

Ian: early January

* * *

Ian starts the new year with optimism, even though the month and a half since he and Mickey discussed their possible future have tried Ian's patience like nothing else.  And he's kept his word and only seen Mickey by accident or at family events.  

But there have been signs. Like when he bumped into Mickey in front of the Gallagher house one weekend afternoon in early December.  They'd exchanged greetings, and Mickey hadn't looked at all spooked to see him.  Ian was, after all, coming to his own childhood home.  But then Carl had emerged from the house and casually invited Ian to join them for a drink.  And Mickey hadn't actually seemed totally opposed to the idea of Ian joining them (probably because he knew Ian would decline, but Ian's determined to count it as a win anyway). 

And then there had been a bigger sign too, when they'd all gotten together the day before Christmas Eve and played several epic and hilarious rounds of charades (there's just something about watching a grown man- Kev, in fact- mime Miley Cyrus's "Wrecking Ball").  Ian had been used to Mickey studiously avoiding Ian's gaze ever since Frank's funeral, but that night Mickey's eyes had repeatedly found Ian's all night.  And more often than not, he'd be smiling.

(Also, for someone who can be so expressive, Mickey was ridiculously, delightfully bad at acting out charades.  Ian filed that away for future reference.)

Ian's pretty sure he walked around in a giddy fog for the next two days after that night.  And he couldn't help but hope, desperately, that it would be the last Christmas they would celebrate separately.

Ian worked an overnight shift on New Year's Eve, and it was probably the first time in years that he spent the whole of his shift wishing he were anywhere but at work.

But more specifically, he wished he were at the party being thrown at the Alibi, where Mickey was sure to be.  What was more romantic than spending New Years together?

He'd secretly hoped for at least a midnight text from Mickey.  He'd gotten a few others from friends, and a midnight selfie from Fiona, with a horde of people squashed into the background (Mickey was not one of them- he zoomed in and checked). But his phone remained silent, and stayed that way for several days. 

But now, just a few days after New Year's, Ian's phone buzzes at 11:00 PM, waking him from his first precious hours of sleep.  Ian grumbles and reaches for his phone.  

His annoyance gives way to elation when he sees who's texted him.  And what they've texted.

Holy shit.

A series of emojis: _banana, eggplant, corn on the cob._

He remembers explaining the potential meaning of the message to Mickey on the El way back in July.

And now Mickey's texting them to _him_.

Another text buzzes in.   _FaceTime_

Holy shit.  This is for real. 

But Ian hesitates.  He feels like Mickey has been moving closer and closer to making a decision- the _right_ decision.  And while he's definitely thought about fucking Mickey hundreds of times in the last several months, the opportunity to finally do something about it oddly feels like a step backwards. He doesn't want to be just a hook up- something Mickey regrets in the morning.

Then again, the last action Ian's gotten was when he rutted against some dude on a crowded dance floor several weekends ago.

Ian debates for another second, then follows the explicit instructions of his dick instead of his brain.  He hits the FaceTime app and dials Mickey. His heart beats a little faster as, after a long second of silence, the phones connect.

It's way too dark wherever Mickey is to see him when he answers.  Ian thinks he can make out the outline of Mickey's head. Then he realizes that he's in the pitch black too.

“Turn on a light,” he orders Mickey as he goes for his own bedside table, his dick already half mast at the thought of what's about to go down.

On the screen, Mickey swears under his breath as he fumbles around. Something heavy crashes with a thud in the background.

Then light fills his screen and Mickey's face is visible. He looks very drunk.  Ian's dick flags in disappointment.  This definitely isn't happening.

“Get your dick out,” Mickey slurs.

“You're too drunk for this,” Ian immediately protests.

“Not too drunk. See?” The camera flips and Ian stares as Mickey palms himself through his boxers.  Ian's body takes a little more interest on instinct.

“Where are you?” Ian asks him to stall for time. Mickey still has the camera on his boxer-clad, half-hard dick.

“Home,” Mickey groans. “C’mon firecrotch, you're real pretty but I don't wanna see your face right now.”

“Where's Svet and Yev?”

“Some rich school field trip shit. Coulda gone too, but this felon can't leave the fuckin’ state.  What sorta fuckin' school goes on a ski trip anyway?” Mickey snorts like he's made a funny joke, but Ian can see through him. Mickey's feeling sorry for himself, so he's drinking to avoid the pain.  And using Ian as a distraction.

Now this is so, _so_ not happening. Ian wills his own boner to go down.

“I'm not gonna have video sex with you right now. Not when you're drunk and upset.”

Mickey makes a frustrated noise and flips the camera to his face again. 

“I'm telling you I fucking consent! You need it in writing?”  He glowers drunkenly.

“Let's do this some other time. Seriously,” Ian tells him. He doesn't want Mickey to feel like he doesn't want him. He _definitely_ wants him.  "Let's talk instead," he wheedles.  

“Fine, fucking pussy. I'll call someone else then.” And the connection is abruptly lost as Mickey hangs up.

Ian falls back onto his pillow, willing away the prickling sensation starting behind his eyes.  He spends the next several minutes struggling not to cry.   _You aren't together_ , he reminds himself.   _Mickey can do what he wants_.  Fuck, maybe he should have just went for it. 

His phone buzzes.

_not gonna call anyone else_

He's torn between jubilation and devastation.  Mickey had wanted him- and presumably no one else, if he can trust Mickey's last text.

But Mickey had also most definitely spooked himself with his own actions and reactions, and Ian's pretty sure now that they've definitely just taken a giant step backwards.

He tosses and turns the rest of the night.

 

Three more weeks pass, and the optimism Ian had felt at the beginning of the year has dwindled significantly.  He's thankful for work, which keeps his mind off of things.  It's nearing the end of January now and the weather has been miserable, which always seems to make work that much more hectic.

Tokay in particular has been a blisteringly bitter day and completely unsafe for travel, which naturally means he's spent all day with car crash victims. His muscles had positively ached before his shower, and he'd stood under the stream of hot water for as long as the water heater would let him.  Now he feels pleasantly sore, like he does after a long workout as he pads into the kitchen to heat up a snack and look at his phone for the first time in over ten hours.

He has 10 texts and one missed call. He's usually not that popular. He listens to the voicemail from Fi ( _“Just sayin’ hey, wonderin’ if you got room for a moody teenager?  I'm joking- kind of.”_ ) and opens the message app.

There's a group text started by one of his coworkers about drinks tonight, with a series of responses. That takes care of 8 of the 10. He leaves the group conversation and doesn't bother responding.

The other two are from Mickey.

They haven't seen each other or texted since Mickey's drunken booty call, except for a quick _sorry, won't happen again. thanks._ from Mickey the next day. Ian had taken a chance and cheekily responded _no_   _problem. hope it does happen again sometime_ and had received radio silence for his trouble. If that wasn't an ego crusher Ian didn't know what was.

Now, Ian reads the current text from Mickey.

_celebrating one year of freedom next Friday if you want to come_

And then another, sent 10 minutes later:

_Sally's Diner on 48th, 4:30_

Ian hopes Mickey hasn't taken Ian's silence as refusal. He pulls up his work schedule and thanks fuck that Friday is his day off. Quickly, he texts back _can't wait!_ And promptly curses himself for being such a fucking loser.

As he could have predicted, Mickey doesn't respond.

 

"You going to Mickey's party on Friday?" Ian asks Carl the next Sunday before family dinner when it's just the two of them and Liam in the living room.

"What party?" Carl asks distractedly, too focused on his video game for a legitimate conversation.

Ian's heart leaps at the implication that Mickey may only have invited him.

"Never mind," Ian says quickly, but then he can't stop himself from asking, "does he ever talk about me?"

"Who?"

Ian rolls his eyes.

"Mickey. Does he ever talk about me?"

"Why would he?" Carl grunts. "Fuck yeah!" he cheers when he gets another kill. "Next level, bitch!"

Okay, that brings Ian's excitement down several notches. It isn't like he expects Mickey to talk his friend's ear off about the guys he likes, but he'd think something would come up.

"Don't worry about it," Carl says suddenly, and Ian starts a little.  Carl's still focused on his game and gives no other indication of having spoken directly to Ian, so Ian says, "huh?"

"I _said_ , don't worry about it."

Ian sits up in his seat.

"So he has talked about me?"

"Fuck no, Jesus," Carl mutters, making a face but staring at the television.  "I'm just saying, you think too much.  You love him, he loves you.  Shit'll work out on its own."

"You think so?" Ian asks with urgency.

Carl shrugs.

"Maybe it won't.  I dunno."

Ian resists the very strong urge to knock Carl upside the head.  With his fist.  On the other side of the couch, Liam catches Ian's eyes and rolls his own.

 

Five days later, and Ian is in front of the tiny mirror in the bathroom of his apartment, standing on tiptoes to get the full effect of his shirt and pants combo.

"You done primping?  I need to pee."  Violet pokes her head in the ajar door and gives him the once over, one eyebrow raised.

"What?  Does this not look good?" Ian looks again at his button down in the mirror.

"You look great, obviously."  Violet rolls her eyes and flicks her hair (she'd returned home from winter break with hair the color of blueberries).  "But you're going to a diner.  With the same guy who wore a very ratty and _highly_ unflattering brown sweater to Thanksgiving.  You think he's really into the boring accountant look?"

Ian stares at his reflection for a minute, debating.

"Fuck, you're right," he sighs.  He sidesteps her and trudges back to his bedroom, where clothes are thrown haphazardly on the bed.  He pulls off the collared dress shirt and goes for a worn in tee shirt.  Then he layers one of his trusty flannels over top and heads back to the bathroom.  He holds his arms out for inspection when Violet emerges. 

"You rock grandpa chic like no one else," she praises, grinning.  "Plus, flannel will absorb your tears better if it goes bad."  She snickers at her own joke, but falters when she sees Ian's face.  "Stupid joke, sorry.  I thought you were feeling pretty good about this?"

"Well, I _was."_

She pats his shoulder.

"Relax.  He wants to meet you, so that's a good sign, right?"

"Unless he's gonna tell me he never wants to see me again."  Ian runs his hands nervously through his hair.

Violet rolls her eyes.

"You know that's not going to happen. Worst case scenario is you'll be friend zoned." 

 

 _Worst case scenario.  Worst case scenario._  Ian thinks about what Violet said as he makes his way toward the diner.  It's an El stop and three more blocks away, so it gives him plenty of time to work himself up, talk himself down, then work himself up again by the time he reaches the diner.

The bell above him dings as he enters.  It isn't busy at all.  It's a little early for the dinner rush.  He spots Mickey- and Yev and Svetlana- instantly.  They're tucked into a booth directly in front of the window. Yevgeny sits in his own side, facing the entrance, and he looks up when he hears the bell, waving enthusiastically when he sees Ian. He's got two strips of paper in his hand that look like tickets to something.

Mickey and Svetlana turn simultaneously in the side of the booth they're sharing to look back at him. Svetlana seems to be making an actual effort to _not_ scowl at Ian when she sees him, which is saying something.  And the corner of Mickey's mouth quirks up in a smile even as he raises his eyebrows impatiently, jerking his head for Ian to hurry up and join them.  Seeing Mickey looking happy to see him calms Ian's nerves- but just a bit.

He's a little surprised and disappointed to see Svetlana and Yevgeny, if he's being honest with himself.  The thought makes him feel guilty instantly, but he'd really, really been hoping that this would be the day.

But then, if Mickey weren't close to deciding, why else would he invite Ian to a family dinner?  

Ian's heart pounds nervously in his chest as he approaches.

“You started without me,” Ian says in surprise, a little hurt to see the remnants of dinner in front of all of them on the table. “Am I late?”

“Uh, sorry.” Mickey sounds a little sheepish. “Forgot to tell you we thought we'd eat just as a family and then Yev and me’ll treat you to dessert.”

“Okay,” Ian accepts, ignoring the twinge in his chest when Mickey says _just as a family_.  "Scoot over,” he orders Yev, who does so happily.

“I will go to appointment now,” announces Svetlana.  She gives Ian a pointed stare, and he blinks back at her, unsure of what he's supposed to take away from that. She shoves at Mickey to let her out of the booth and he grumbles, but helps her slide out anyway.

Svetlana's belly is huge and she still has a few months to go. Ian doesn't remember her looking this big with either Yevgeny or the surrogacy pregnancy.

“Will you get pictures again this time?” Yev asks his mother.

“Just routine check up today. I must hurry to be there before 5,” she tells him, leaning over Ian to ruffle her son’s hair. Even with Ian leaning awkwardly away, her belly brushes his shoulder.  She smirks down at him. “See you boys at home, yes?” she directs at the others. Then she pulls Mickey to her and kisses him gently on the cheek.  “Congratulations, Misha," she tells him, pride evident in her tone.

“Yeah, yeah.” He shoos her away but trails a hand over her belly quickly and intimately. He colors when he meets Ian's gaze.

The sun from the streaky window is shining directly into Mickey's eyes, making them look like twin pools of Caribbean ocean water Ian has only seen in movies and pictures. Ian barely registers Svetlana leaving and Mickey sitting back down until Yevgeny gets his attention.

“Ian, look!  Dad’s taking me to a professional soccer game!” Yevgeny tells him excitedly, waving the tickets Ian saw earlier in his face. “Game's not for a few months, but still. It's my prison anniversary present!”

“That's so awesome!” Ian tells Yev. And for the next several minutes the men listen as Yevgeny goes on and on about the game.  Honestly most of it goes over his head, and whenever he sneaks a glance at Mickey, he sees he's got that same bewildered, affectionate look on his face.  They make eye contact for a beat too long once and Mickey covers his grin with his coffee mug, squinting out the window.  Ian's heart picks up its fluttering again.

When Yevgeny pauses to take a breath, Ian teases Mickey, “So where's my prison anniversary present, Mick?”

Mickey looks up at him, and this time he holds Ian's gaze. His lips are quirked in a smirk, but his eyes are soft.

Ian swallows.

“You guys ready?” the waitress suddenly interrupts them, gesturing to the dessert menu that Mickey's got on the table in front of him.

“Think so,” Mickey says evenly, handing her the menu without breaking eye contact with Ian. “You ready, Ian?”

Ian's breath catches.  In Mickey's eyes he sees everything he's hoped to see.  Anticipation.  Hope.  Love.  And, briefly, a flicker of apprehension.  Mickey cuts his gaze once to Yevgeny, then back to Ian.

And Ian understands. He gets why Mickey brought him here, now.  He needed to show him what he's signing up for.

This is more than a relationship.  If Ian says yes, he says yes to everything: Svetlana and Yevgeny.  The new baby.  Mickey- and all of the demons that still chase him.

He can read it in Mickey's face as they stare at one another: it won't be easy, but Mickey's willing to try.

If they can overcome _this_ \- this near decade of being torn apart by far more than just miles and circumstance- Ian figures they can get through anything.  

“Yeah,” he breathes, unable to stop the grin from growing on his face as Mickey slowly smiles back. “Yeah, Mickey. I'm ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it: short and sweet. Just how I like my Mickey. ;)


End file.
